JOHN WILLIAM PYE 
 LIBRARY OF 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2018 with funding from 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 https://archive.org/details/agneslittlekeyor00adam_0 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AGNES 
 
 AND THE LITTLE KEY: 
 
 OR, 
 
 BEREAVED PARENTS INSTRUCTED 
 AND COMFORTED. 
 
 BY HER FATHER. 
 
 NINTH EDITION, KEVISED. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 1864 . 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 NEHEMIAH ADAMS, 
 
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE 
 
 TO THE EIGHTH EDITION. 
 
 We are assured by the author of this book that, in view 
 of the sacredly private experiences which it contains, it 
 would not have been published had he not supposed that 
 special pains to conceal the authorship would have been 
 successful. On being published, the book was by common 
 consent and without question ascribed to its true source. 
 We yield, however, to the author’s wish in still withhold¬ 
 ing his name from the title-page. 
 
 The book was soon, and without any suggestion from 
 this country, printed in London. The Right ITon. and Right 
 Rev. Archibald Campbell, Bishop of London, had about 
 that time excited the Christian sympathy of the British 
 public by his great and sore domestic bereavements. The 
 London publishers sought and obtained permission to dedi¬ 
 cate the English edition of this book to him, which was 
 done as follows : — 
 
 “ To the Right Hon. and Right Rev. Archibald Camp¬ 
 bell, Lord Bishop of London, himself an earnest laborer 
 in the field of Christian love, this volume, written by one 
 
iv 
 
 PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE. 
 
 who desires to impart to others the strength and consola¬ 
 tion and hope vouchsafed to him in the house of mourn¬ 
 ing, is, by his Lordship’s kind permission, most respectfully 
 dedicated.” 
 
 The author of u Memorials of Captain Hedley Vicars,” 
 wrote a Preface to this English edition, from which the 
 following is extracted : — 
 
 “ A stranger to the author of this book, his name even 
 unknown to me, I feel it to be almost a sacrilege to comply 
 with the request to write a Preface for it; fearing lest any 
 touch of mine should mar the delicacy, simplicity, and 
 
 beauty of this memorial monument.A single glance at 
 
 these pages would have been introduction enough for the 
 volume to mourners on this side of the Atlantic. It .is the 
 tone of simple truth, the reality, in this record of an earthly 
 sorrow gradually gilded and finally glorified by a Heavenly 
 Hope and Faith, which renders it peculiarly suitable to 
 mourners.There is none of that dry, theological con¬ 
 
 solation, or hard, unsympathizing denunciation of all im¬ 
 passioned grief, too frequently assumed in books written 
 for mourners.He has spoken to his brothers and sis¬ 
 ters throughout a mourning world.It is a record of 
 
 reaping in joy after sowing in tears.” 
 
“5Tf)c Apostle f)oult unto ttje iHomaints 
 toritetfj, plan stall rcjoncc totttj Ijent tijat 
 maftetfj jogo, aits liepen totttj stottijc folite as 
 toepen.” 
 
 (EJwucer* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 chapters. paqb. 
 
 I. AGNES — Her Sickness, Death, and Burial — 
 
 Finding of the Key,.9 
 
 H. What shall I do with the Key ? . . . .21 
 
 III. Parental Sorrow and Submission, ... 29 
 
 IV. Consolations,.35 
 
 V. Visit to the Grave with the Key, ... 45 
 
 VL Instructions and Comfort from the Key, . . .62 
 
 VH. Anniversaries of Bereavements, ... 97 
 
 VIH. Burial of the Drover’s Child, .... 102 
 IX. The Boreaved Infidel, ..... 106 
 
 X. He.ping one’s self in Affliction, .... 150 
 XT. Losing and Leaving Children, . . . ^ 167 
 
 (VH) 
 

 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AGNES. 
 
 « 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 She was not quite one year old. I can¬ 
 not venture to describe her. My heart 
 swells and is ready to break at the thought 
 of some sweet, touching feature, some win¬ 
 ning way, the posture and motion of her 
 hands or feet, her inarticulate noises with 
 her lips, the pressure of her mouth against 
 our cheeks, that being as far as she had 
 advanced in kissing. Sights of her asleep, 
 when her mother and I stood over her with 
 lamp in hand, are as deeply stamped on my 
 mind as views in the Alps. I could tell you 
 every dimple which we detected as she lay 
 on her back, a knee or arm disengaged from 
 her clothing. All her mimicry of sounds and 
 
 ( 9 ) 
 
 
10 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 of motions, and her little feats, which aston¬ 
 ished herself and made us shout* her morning 
 hath, she a little image, with her very straight 
 back, plashing the water with her feet; and 
 other nameless things, raise the question, and 
 leave it in doubt, whether I wish there were 
 more of them to remember, or whether it is 
 well for me that she had been developed no 
 more. Human bliss arrives at perfection as 
 frequently in such scenes and experiences, as 
 when we have made calculations for happi¬ 
 ness; indeed, we are never more happy than 
 during the little, sudden tournaments of love 
 with a young child; and the man who has a 
 wife and child, supplying him with these inad¬ 
 vertent pleasures, will find in the retrospect 
 that he was most happy when he least sus- 
 
 0 
 
 pected it. To know when we have in posses¬ 
 sion the means of true happiness, and to rejoice 
 m it, and feel satisfied, is rare. Would that 1 
 had thought more of this when my little child 
 was with me. 
 
 * 
 
 Sometimes I looked at her with a feeling of 
 
AGNES. 
 
 11 
 
 awe. Mine, indeed, she was; but in what a 
 subordinate sense! That perfect frame, that 
 wondrous mind, that immortal destiny, often 
 made me shrink into nothingness at the con¬ 
 templation of her—feeling that God, in making 
 her, had rolled a sphere into an orbit which is 
 measureless, making it touch mine, but having 
 a path of its own, which cannot be compre¬ 
 hended in that of another, not even in that of 
 the earthly parent. I was glad that there was 
 an infinite God to possess this infinite treasure, 
 and control it; for it was too much for me. 
 My enjoyment of her was often overshadowed 
 by these thoughts. Still she was to me a 
 perfect joy. Her beautifully unfolding life 
 left me nothing to desire. 
 
 But the destroyer came. It had been an 
 exceedingly hot summer, and cholera infantum 
 began to waste the little face and frame. We 
 saw that she must die; we nevertheless main¬ 
 tained a cheerfulness of feeling which after¬ 
 ward seemed to us unnatural; but no doubt it 
 was kindly given, to bear us through the trial 
 
12 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 The last r ght that she was put to rest, her 
 symptoms were favorable; but, early in the 
 morning, he nurse whispered to me, that the 
 child “ loo ed strange,” and she led my way 
 to the nu sery. The little patient lay with 
 her hand under her cheek, her eyes were 
 raised and fixed on the wall. I supposed that 
 she was watching a shadow, and I spoke to 
 her by name. She did not move, nor did she 
 turn her eyes; I spoke again, and kissed her; 
 it was in ain ; the fearful truth flashed upon 
 me, that she was convulsed. We watched 
 her till sundown, when she ceased to breathe. 
 
 I fear hat some of you will smile, if I say, 
 she seemed to me the sweetest little thing 
 that ever died; that, as she lay in her last 
 sleep, no sight could be quite so beautiful and 
 touching ; that the loss of a child never, 
 probably, awoke such tenderness of love and 
 such grief. Suffer me at least to think so, 
 without debate. 
 
 Plow can I tell you anything about the last 
 sad scene at the grave? Enough to say that 
 
aGNES. 
 
 13 
 
 each of us kissed the sweet face; we gazed on 
 her a few moments, while tears ran down; and 
 
 some things were uttered, between speaking 
 
 • 
 
 and crying, till at length her mother kneeled, 
 and held her face near the little face for a 
 few moments, without a sound; then drew the 
 white embroidered blanket over the little 
 thing, for it was a cold day; and thus the last 
 “ Now I lay me down to sleep ” seemed to be 
 said and heard. I closed the lid. “ Lieth 
 down and riseth not, till the heavens be no 
 more; ” — what shall I have seen and known 
 before I see this face again! That simple 
 thing, the closing of the lid, what a world of 
 meaning was in it! My thoughts were mak¬ 
 ing a whirlpool about me, till my eye was 
 taken by the nearer approach of a man, in 
 his shirt-sleeves and rough working garb, 
 who respectfully seemed to intimate, We 
 are ready, sir, when you are. 0 must we, 
 must we, part? Must the grave have her? 
 With an effort, I said, Thy will be done. I 
 turned the key, and took it out of the lock, 
 
 2 
 
14 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 and understood how even good men could 
 have opened their mouths, at certain times, 
 against the day of their birth. We waited. 
 In a few moments, one more little mound 
 grew up from the earth; the clods of the 
 valley had become sweet to one more father 
 and mother. 
 
 We rode away. I was glad that the horses 
 started off so fast, though, for the first moment, 
 it shocked me. I was expecting to move 
 away at the slow, solemn pace with which we 
 came. 
 
 Turning a corner in the cemetery, a little 
 stone over a little grave, the only one in the 
 enclosure, caught my eye, as we drove past, 
 with this inscription: Charlie. Ah, is Charlie 
 dead ? I felt very sorry. Who Charlie was, 
 I did not know; but his father, I thought, had 
 been there on an errand like mine. Had I 
 met him in the street, on my way home, some 
 one pointing him out to me, I would have 
 stopped him, and told him what I had seen, 
 and that Agnes was dead. For a moment, the 
 
AGNES. 
 
 15 
 
 stream of my grief was broken and divided 
 by that little headstone, as a great river is 
 divided by the delta at its mouth; but it 
 came together again very soon. 
 
 It is known, and some of you to w r hom 
 I speak have had painful opportunity to know, 
 that there has been, of late years, an improve¬ 
 ment in the little depositories in which we 
 convey the forms of infants and young chil¬ 
 dren to their last resting-place. 
 
 Their shape is not in seeming mockery of 
 the rigid, swathed body; the broken lines and 
 angles of the old coffin are drawn into con¬ 
 tinuous lines; they look like other things, and 
 not like that which looks like nothing else, a 
 coffin ; you would be willing to have such a 
 shape for the depository of any household 
 article. Within, they are prepared with a 
 pearly white lining; the inside of the lid is 
 draped in the same way; the name is on the 
 inside; and a lock and key supplant the re¬ 
 morseless screws and screw-driver. 
 
 As I was going to bed that night, and was 
 
16 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 taking off my vest, emptying the pockets, in a 
 listless mood, of whatever had found its way 
 there through the day, I drew forth, among 
 other things, a little key, trimmed with white 
 satin ribbon. 
 
 Then the clouds returned after the rain. 
 I thought, for a few moments, that I should 
 lose my reason. 
 
 Why need I attempt to relate the mingled 
 feelings, with a particular anguish in each of 
 them, with which I stood in the middle of my 
 room, alone, holding that key in my hand ? 
 
 It became necessary, at last, to put it some¬ 
 where. But it was the most difficult thing to 
 dispose of which ever came into my posses¬ 
 sion. I could neither keep it nor part with it. 
 I abhorred it, and idolized it. I wished to be 
 rid of it, and I clung to it. There was a 
 fearful spell about it; and yet it was a charm, 
 a precious treasure, and at the same time a 
 symbol of my agony. I hung it up over a 
 picture in my private room, for the night. 
 
 But I lay some time in the morning, afraid 
 
AGNES. 
 
 17 
 
 ✓ 
 
 to go into that room. I felt that there was 
 but one thing there. I opened the door, with 
 my eyes levelled at the spot where I was to 
 see that thing. The cheerful sunlight was 
 streaming upon that part of the room, and, 
 how strange ! it made a focus on the key, and 
 the light gleamed from it. I ought to have 
 felt, more than I did, that the love and com¬ 
 passion of God was trying to speak comfort to 
 me. 
 
 I took the key, and wrote the little name 
 
 on the ribbon, the birth-day, the dying-day, 
 
 ■ 
 
 the day of burial, the path, and the number 
 of the burial-place. 
 
 Enhancing the value of this priceless treas¬ 
 ure by this inscription, I consulted with 
 myself what to do with it. Perhaps you 
 would kindly he willing to follow me in my 
 perplexity, and see how one project after 
 another arose and was debated in my mind, 
 in settling the question, where I should place 
 and keep the little key. Though you suffer 
 the afflicted to tell their tale in their own 
 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 way, with all its needless particularity of 
 dates, incidents, and strictest regard to un¬ 
 important historical succession, I shall avoid 
 these things, for I know to whom I speak. A 
 goodly company have I with me, sitting on 
 the ground, keeping silence, and hearkening 
 to my woe. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 The question was, What shall I do with the 
 key of the little coffin ? 
 
 A large part of the forenoon was spent, to 
 the neglect of other things, in fruitless debates 
 with myself as to the best way of keeping this 
 strange possession. I had, perhaps, thirty 
 keys, but never was I at a loss where to keep 
 any of them. Most of them were in bunches, 
 on rings; the thought of placing this among 
 them was revolting. I was afraid of seeing it 
 too often, while I also wished to keep it con¬ 
 stantly in sight. Should I desecrate the key 
 of such an enclosure, as I would, by mixing 
 it with drawer-keys and 
 
 My first conclusion was, that I should keep 
 it in my purse. Then I resolved that I would 
 tie it in my Bible. How it would unlock for 
 me the promises of God’s Word, open many 
 
 ( 19 ) 
 
 keys of trunks ? 
 
20 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 meanings of passages which I never thought . 
 of, and be a seal to all the truths which would 
 meet my eye, especially those relating to the 
 transitoriness of earthly good, and to all which 
 is said of heaven. And yet I w r as afraid ol 
 seeing it too often. 
 
 The little crib had been carried away to the 
 store-chamber, with the trunks, old andirons, 
 carpets, and supernumerary things. To tie the 
 little key to the little crib, joining her first 
 and last resting-places together, was another 
 project which was soon abandoned. 
 
 I will store it up with her playthings, I 
 said to myself; and went to the drawer of the 
 old “ secretary,” in the upper chamber, and 
 looked upon them. 
 
 I did wrong to trust myself there. My 
 wife, with the child in her lap, was riding with 
 me in the time of apple blossoms, through 
 some of the neighboring towns; and, stop¬ 
 ping a peddler under a great apple tree, and 
 seeing the rattle, she took it, for future use. 
 flow the blossom-leaves fell into the chaise, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 21 
 
 and on our laps, while a little hand was made to 
 open, and was held out to catch some of them. 
 0, that incense-breathing May day! that 
 sweet communion, that joint love for the little 
 treasure with us, which made us the happiest 
 of parents! And now I had come to lay the 
 little key by the side of that toy. Sir Thomas 
 Browne says, “ Fortune lays the plot of our 
 adversities in the foundation of our felicities.” 
 How did those playthings seem to look up in 
 my face and mock me! The strings of red 
 coral, to loop the arms of dresses, were there 
 in the same white satin paper-box in which I 
 brought them from the jeweller’s. I was duly 
 notified, and was present when they were tried 
 on. A tin horse on rockers, red and white, 
 lay prostrate on his side. Two india-rubber 
 rings, with prints of small teeth in them, were 
 there. What searchings for those teeth there 
 used to be, before they came up like lambs 
 from the washing. A box with a puff-ball and 
 powder was there put away; a silver whistle, 
 with small bells at the end; a Turkish-looking 
 
22 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 head and body on a stick, with spangles on 
 pendant strips of cashmere; a little comb and 
 very soft brush, all lay together, as though 
 discrimination had dreaded to exercise itself 
 there. And so, in reckless negligence, incon¬ 
 gruous things, bound together, however, by 
 one dread tie, lay useless and neglected. Here 
 seemed the place for the little key, except 
 that it involved the idea of abandoning it. 
 Had its use come to an end? shall it be 
 doomed to oblivion? shall I put it where I 
 shall not dare to look at it, through fear of 
 meeting other things which will combine their 
 power to torment me ? I can look at it alone. 
 But I could neither consent to leave it where 
 I would not be willing to go, or where, if I 
 did go, I should suffer at the sight of so many 
 other little memorials. So I brought it away, 
 as much at a loss as ever how to dispose of it. 
 By this time it became necessary for me to 
 take advice on the subject ; and accordingly I 
 went into my wife’s room, and found her sit¬ 
 ting before her cheerful, blazing fire ; the 
 
AGNES. 
 
 23 
 
 room darkened a little, and her small Bible 
 lying in her lap, which she had evidently been 
 reading when I tapped at her door. 
 
 What a hush there was in that chamber of 
 sorrow! Things seemed to be holding their 
 peace; they looked as though they had setr 
 tied themselves into a posture for deep 
 thought. The muslin window-curtains never 
 hung so straight and proper before. The 
 chairs each had a vacated look, while the 
 cannel coal made its sizzling noises more 
 vivaciously than ever, and, as I fancied, with 
 the feelings of a boy whistling in the dark. 
 
 Dear wife! she was pale, and had been 
 weeping. May I not as well disclose the 
 dread secret here, as elsewhere, that now she 
 sleeps by the side of Agnes ? I will not en¬ 
 large. I sat by her side, and we both looked 
 into the fire. 
 
 “ You did not take cold, yesterday,” said I. 
 
 cc No,” said she; 66 it was thoughtful in you 
 to fix that board for me to stand on while thev 
 were filling the—” 
 
24 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 There was a pause, and I said, " Let us try 
 and not think of yesterday; ” — at the same 
 time knowing how foolish it was to say this, 
 especially as I myself thought of nothing else; 
 but I had to say something. 
 
 a Will you tell me,” said I, “ what you were 
 saying, yesterday, when you put your face 
 down to the dear little face at the grave, and 
 held it there ? ” 
 
 “ 0,1 recollected,” said she, " how I gave 
 that child to God before she was born. One 
 day I read that passage in the Psalms where 
 David is dwelling with so much satisfaction on 
 God’s perfect knowledge of him, and ‘ possess¬ 
 ing’ him before he was bom.” 
 
 I sat and thought of those words, which we 
 seldom repeat to one another; or, if we read 
 them in company, the voice feels a subduing 
 influence from them. Yet, to one in trouble, 
 nothing gives a more impressive sense of 
 God’s perfect knowledge of him, and property 
 in him, than to read, "Thine eye did see my 
 substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy 
 
AGNES. 
 
 25 
 
 book all my members were written, which in 
 continuance were fashioned, when, as yet, 
 there was none of them. How precious, also, 
 are tliy thoughts unto me, 0 God! how 
 great is the sum of them ! If I should count 
 them, they are more in number than the 
 sand: when I awake, I am still with thee.” 
 
 She broke my reverie by saying: “At the 
 time you refer to, yesterday, I was going over 
 my feelings about Agnes, from the very first 
 moment, and all along; and I thought how en¬ 
 tirely I gave her up to God, when I knew that 
 I was to be a mother, and when she was given 
 to us. When I took my last look, and felt 
 her little cheek for the last time, I did again, 
 what I had done so many times before, — I 
 gave her up to God, to be disposed of for his 
 glory.” 
 
 “And now,” said I, “He has taken us at our 
 word.” 
 
 “ If we were sincere in all that we did,” she 
 replied, “ we have nothing to regret. Though 
 her child lay dead, the Shunamite woman 
 
 3 
 
26 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 said , 6 It is well/ I am trying to say this, and 
 you must help me/’ 
 
 “ I came in,” said I, “ to ask what we should 
 do with that little key which I brought away 
 with me, yesterday.” 
 
 “ 0, did you bring it away ? I wondered 
 whether you did. I almost hoped that you 
 gave it to the undertaker.” 
 
 “ What could he have done with it ? ” said I. 
 
 “ It could never be of any use, of course, 
 and why should you keep it ? I am afraid it 
 will only harrow up your feelings.” 
 
 “ Perhaps, then,” I replied, “ I will take it to 
 him, and let him mix it with other keys of the 
 same kind, or use it as a spare key when one 
 is lost.” 
 
 “ 0 no,” she said, hesitatingly, “ I would not 
 do that.” 
 
 “ But where,” said I, “ shall we keep it ?” I 
 then told her of my several projects, and how 
 it had made me suffer already, and still how I 
 clung to the little treasure. 
 
 She had the greatest skill in managing my 
 
AGNES. 
 
 27 
 
 feelings, at all times, without any show of 
 power over me. I worshipped her almost as 
 a superior being, leading, guiding me in times 
 of great excitement, and always bringing me 
 out with self-respect, and with augmented 
 reverence for her. 
 
 “Before you discuss the little key,” she 
 said, “I want you to read to me that long 
 letter which father wrote soon after Agnes 
 was born. I always wondered why father 
 never tried his hand at writing tales. That 
 story is told in such a way that it affects me 
 exceedingly. It will divert my mind to hear 
 you read it, and, at the same time, it is on a 
 subject which will suit my feelings.” 
 
 I went to my desk for the manuscript, ask¬ 
 ing myself whether it was really for her sake 
 or my own, that she wished me to read it to 
 her; and, though I suspected that it was for 
 my sake, yet, the ingenious way in which it 
 was brought about, pleased me, and I gladly 
 gave myself up to the innocent stratagem—if, 
 indeed, it were such. As I took the manu- 
 
28 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 script from the file of papers which were with 
 it, I slipped the little key under the large 
 india-rubber band which held them together, 
 glad of some temporary hiding-place for it. 
 
 The dinner-bell rang on my way back to 
 her room. "Is it possible?” we both ex¬ 
 claimed ; " where has the morning gone ? ” 1 
 
 thought it was about noon. It was two 
 o’clock. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Entering the dining-room together, we found 
 our chairs set for us at the table, as usual, and 
 between them a high chair. Jane had fol¬ 
 lowed her habit of placing the little chair at 
 table. We both uttered something like a 
 groan, and sat down; but it was some time 
 before I could speak audibly enough to ask a 
 blessing. She was regularly brought in with 
 the dessert, tied into her "high chair, and then 
 began the chief pleasure of our meal. Her 
 little body was kept in exultant action; the 
 table was thumped and beaten; and, as the 
 things rattled, she felt encouraged to pound 
 the more. The oranges excited her desire; 
 and, reaching and stretching after them with 
 a straining noise in her throat, her face would 
 grow red, till her determination was soothed 
 by her effort to say “ please,” or something 
 
 3* (29) 
 
30 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 which was accepted as an equivalent, when 
 her efforts to grasp and hold the orange, which 
 was rolled toward her, proving, literally, fruit¬ 
 less, she made us laugh at her, she striving to 
 
 t 
 
 laugh as loud as we. 
 
 The chair kept its place during the meal, 
 and tears were our meat, till my wife essayed 
 to be my comforter, and said : 
 
 “ We are not the only parents who have 
 gone through such trials.” 
 
 “ How little we have, after all,” said I, “ to 
 weep over, compared with many. There are 
 trials with living children which are worse 
 than losing an infant. But do you not think 
 that the death of a dear little child is a very 
 peculiar sorrow ? It seems to me that I have 
 seen people in more anguish under the loss 
 of little children than in any other affliction.” 
 
 “ 0,” said she, “ there is an exquisite ten¬ 
 derness in your love for a little child which 
 makes the affliction peculiar. After all, it is 
 my intense love for Agnes which distresses 
 me.” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 31 
 
 “It is so with me; but 1 suppose/’ said I, 
 “ that a mother has feelings toward the child 
 when it is gone, which, in some respects, are 
 different from those which fathers have; and 
 yet, sometimes, I think that I am suffering 
 more than you, or that you have more control 
 over your feelings than I.” 
 
 “We must help each other,” said she; “hut 
 a daughter is a great comfort to a mother, as 
 she grows up, and is company for her at 
 home. I hardly know what to do with my¬ 
 self ; it seems as though I had nothing to do ; 
 but that is not right; I mean to feel differ¬ 
 ently ; but I suppose we must expect to suffei 
 for a time.” 
 
 “ There is ‘ a time to embrace, and a time 
 to refrain from embracing/ the wise man telk 
 us. But,” said I, “ let us resolve on this, that 
 we will not let sorrow make us selfish. Some 
 people are wholly absorbed for a long 
 time in their sorrow, and become unfit for 
 everything. Let us try and make our hearts 
 expand, instead of curling their affections in* 
 
32 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 wardly, and shutting themselves up closer 
 from others” 
 
 "It seems to me” she said, "as though I 
 should greatly love every mother now, and 
 her child, and do all in my power to comfort 
 those who lose children. I am so glad that I 
 do not find it in my heart to murmur against 
 God. Some people seem to me to retain an 
 unforgiving spirit against God, when He takes 
 a child from them ” 
 
 I told her of a mother, who, on losing an 
 only child, said to me, " I don’t see why I 
 should be singled out, and be robbed of my 
 only child, when my sisters each have large 
 families, and have never lost a child.” My 
 blood ran cold to hear the woman talk so. I 
 could not help thinking, It may be God loves 
 you most, and therefore afflicts you. 0, when 
 we part with our perfect confidence in God’s 
 goodness and wisdom, we drift, without help 
 or hold, we know not where. 
 
 In the course of our talk, 1 related two 
 anecdotes. A former President of the Col- 
 
AGNES. 
 
 33 
 
 lege in Cambridge, Mass., when he was pastor 
 of a church, called on a ladv who had lost a 
 child, and who took occasion to say many 
 things which manifested a quarrelsome dis¬ 
 position, or certainly an unsubmissive state of 
 feeling. She “ never could be reconciled; ” 
 she “ never would submit to it; ” it was 66 more 
 than human nature could bear.” Her pastor 
 silently heard her through, and, after a short 
 pause, he quietly said, 66 Well, madam, what do 
 you propose to do about it ? ” 
 
 An English clergyman was praying at the 
 bedside of a sick child, and, after petitioning 
 for its recovery, in an earnest manner, he 
 said, 66 But, if Thou hast otherwise ordained, 
 and hast purposed to take away this child ” — 
 “0 no,” interrupted the mother, 66 never; 0, 
 don’t say so, I cannot have it;” — and so, more 
 than once, during the prayer, she protested 
 audibly against the sovereign will of God. 
 The clergyman was much pained and grieved 
 at this want of submission to God’s most holy 
 
 C'' 
 
 will. He and that mother both lived to see 
 
34 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 that child perish on the gallows, by the hand 
 of the public executioner, at the age of twenty- 
 live. 
 
 u But,” said 1 , 66 we have both thought and 
 talked enough about this for the present; and 
 so we will postpone our reading, and I will 
 take you to ride, this beautiful afternoon.” 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Before bringing the horse to the door, 1 
 walked to the Post-office. On my way, I was 
 struck with the manner of many of my 
 friends and acquaintances. One thing affected 
 me. Some, who hardly ever had felt suffi¬ 
 ciently acquainted to bow as we passed, 
 saluted me as I went by. They knew of my 
 affliction; they noticed the weed on my hat; 
 they saw my sorrow, probably, in my looks. 
 It made me love my fellow-men more than 
 ever ; it made me resolve to be kind to peo¬ 
 ple in trouble. Some of my acquaintances 
 who were formerly free to speak, went by 
 with most respectful and solemn looks, unwil¬ 
 ling to intrude upon my grief; while here and 
 there a hand would grasp mine, and, with eyes 
 full of tears, one and another would say, “ 0, 
 my dear sir, I know all that you have gone 
 
 (35) 
 
3G 
 
 A Q N E S . 
 
 through, for I have felt the same .” That walk 
 did much to change the complexion of my 
 feelings; but alas! every now and then I 
 thought of that little key, and of my morn¬ 
 ing’s employment, and I felt as we do when 
 the sea swells under our feet. 
 
 As soon as we started on our drive, we met 
 young children in the arms of nursery-maids, 
 or in wicker carriages. We watched them as 
 they passed, as though they were strange or 
 most interesting sights. Once I turned the 
 horse and rode back, to give my wife a view 
 of a little face over a nurse’s shoulder. “Dear 
 little thing,” said she, “just the age of Agnes; 
 how happy her mother must be.” 
 
 “Are you not glad for her mother?” said I. 
 
 “ Surely I am, and love her dearly, without 
 knowing her,” she replied. “ And one thing I 
 can hardly account for—that, seeing these 
 little things makes me love God more than 
 ever.” 
 
 “ Now that is a good sign,” said I; “for when 
 we love God, I do believe that afflictions make 
 
AGNES. 
 
 37 
 
 us love him more. We cannot be stationary 
 in our feelings toward him in times of great 
 sorrow ; we either go back from him, and are 
 cold toward him, which is a dreadful sign; . 
 or we cling to him, and say , 6 Whom have I 
 in heaven but thee ? ’ ” 
 
 “ You praise me sometimes,” said she, “when 
 I wish that you would examine me and tell me 
 my faults.” 
 
 “ I examined you then,” said I, “ and felt 
 bound to give the result. We must not deny 
 the work of God’s grace in us; that grieves 
 him. We must discriminate in our confes¬ 
 sions, and be thankful for any right feeling, 
 and cherish it.” 
 
 “ What were those lines,” said she, “ which 
 Dr. D. quoted, in his sermon on New Year’s 
 day, about submission to God ? ” 
 
 “ I have them in my porte-inonnaie; he 
 copied them for me, I was so much struck with 
 them. He said he quoted them from memory, 
 but thought they were nearly right. Please 
 
 4 
 
38 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 take the reins a moment, and I will read 
 them. 
 
 “ ‘ With patience, then, the course of duty run; 
 
 God never does, nor suffers to be done, 
 
 But that which you would do, if you could see 
 The end of all events, as well as He.’ ” 
 
 66 0,” said she, giving back the reins, “ I feel 
 so safe when you are driving; and that would 
 do, by the way, to moralize upon. But the 
 thoughts in those lines have done more to sus¬ 
 tain me, or, at least, to keep my mind quiet, 
 than any uninspired words.” 
 
 “No doubt it is literally true,” said I, “ that, 
 if we could have seen all which God saw, we 
 should have said, { How desirable it is that 
 Agnes should die now.’ We never would 
 have taken the responsibility of judging, how¬ 
 ever ; and therefore it is well that there is One 
 who can, and who is willing to do so, and does 
 not spare for our crying.” 
 
 “ What are some of the reasons,” said she, 
 w which you can imagine why it was best ? ” 
 
 “ 0, she might have had the seeds of disease 
 
AGNES. 
 
 39 
 
 in her, which would have made her life a bur¬ 
 den/’ I replied. 
 
 “ Or she might have proved a great trial to 
 us in some way/’ she added. 
 
 a Perhaps/’ said I, “ God wishes to prepare 
 us to do great good in the world, and this is 
 the preparative. If God seeks to fill us with 
 himself, if he desires our love, what an honor 
 it is, and what a privilege it is, to receive him, 
 even by displacing the dearest object.” 
 
 “ Why, there comes a hearse,” said she; and 
 true, we were about to meet a funeral. 
 
 The hearse proved to be some way in ad¬ 
 vance of the carriages, and was empty; the 
 burial had taken place; the friends were re¬ 
 turning. 
 
 I brought my horse to a walk; and, as the 
 first carriage drove by, a lady in the deepest 
 mourning had her face in her handkerchief, 
 and was bowed half way down, as in violent 
 weeping, while the gentleman at her side, his 
 hat off, leaned his head back, his face in like 
 manner covered, and he abandoned to grief. 
 
40 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Two sweet children, a boy and girl, were on 
 the front seat, the curtains rolled up, watching 
 the wet gravel which the wheels threw off. 
 We hardly noticed the other carriages. 
 
 “There,” said I, “is grief, which perhaps 
 they would be willing to exchange for ours.” 
 
 “I hope,” said she, “that they have some 
 of the consolations which we possess. What 
 do people in such troubles as these do without 
 God ? ” 
 
 “ 0, they try and make the best of it,” said 
 I; “they go into company, get relief in busi¬ 
 ness or pleasures, and strive to outlive it; or 
 they become melancholy and useless. But 
 how much better it is to say, ‘Show me 
 wherefore thou contendest with me and be 
 more anxious to know what God intends 
 and expects, than why the affliction hap¬ 
 pened” 
 
 “ The greatest trial I have had,” said she, 
 “in this affliction, is, to think that God is angry 
 with me for my sins, and is dealing with me 
 in wrath ” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 41 
 
 “ Do vou feel so ? ” said I, “ for I am almost 
 glad if you do, because I can tell you some¬ 
 thing which greatly helped me. I told Dr. 
 D., when he called, the day that Agnes died, 
 that my greatest trouble was, that God was 
 angry with me for some particular sin, or for 
 all my sins.” 
 
 “ What did he say to you ? ” said she. 
 
 66 He said that he once preached a sermon 
 on that very point. c Behavior in trouble’ 
 was the subject, and he took this view of it: 
 ‘Admit the worst; you have been a great sin¬ 
 ner, in some particular; now God is dealing 
 with you for it. 
 
 “ ‘ What will you do ? Flee from him ? be 
 shy of him? feel angry and stubborn? No, 
 but thank him that he is willing to take you in 
 hand. Brambles/ he said, ‘ do not get pruned; 
 vines are cut, and thinned out.’ Then he took 
 your little Bible, which lay near, and read 
 three beautiful passages, and turned down the 
 leaves for me. 
 
 “ One was this: ‘ Surely it is meet to be said 
 
 4 * 
 
42 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 unto God, I have borne chastisement, I will 
 not offend any more.’ 
 
 “ This, he said, is Christian meekness; hum¬ 
 bling one’s self under the mighty hand of 
 God; and it is our first duty.” 
 
 “I saw those leaves turned down,” said she, 
 66 but what were the other passages ? ” 
 
 “ The next, he said, tells us how God feels 
 towards us when He afflicts us, and we humble 
 ourselves: ( I have surely heard Ephraim be 
 moaning himself thus: Thou hast chastised 
 me, and I was chastised, as a bullock unaccus- 
 
 t 
 
 tomed to the yoke ; turn thou me, and I shall 
 be turned; for thou art the Lord my God.’ 
 
 “ Then God speaks: ‘ Is Ephraim my dear 
 son ? is he a pleasant child ? for, since I spake 
 against him, I do earnestly remember him 
 still; therefore my bowels are troubled for 
 him ; I will surely have mercy upon him, saith 
 the Lord.’ ” 
 
 Turning to witness her smile of gratification 
 at such words, I saw her face with tear aftei 
 tear coursing down upon it. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 43 
 
 But how strangely mixed up are pathos 
 and innocent mirth, in all that is natural, and 
 in ways, too, which art cannot imitate with¬ 
 out seeming unnatural. The horse, failing to 
 discriminate between some sound which I 
 made with my lips, and a chirrup, started off 
 at a good round trot. This left a little less 
 shading to our thoughts. 
 
 “ You would not wish to stop at the cem¬ 
 etery/’ I said, “ on our way home.” 
 
 “ 0 no, not to-day,” she replied; 66 it would 
 only excite needless grief. Some pleasant 
 morning we will ride out there.” 
 
 “Why do you say the morning,” I asked, 
 (i rather than the afternoon ? ” 
 
 “ I like to take a bright sunny morning to 
 visit a new grave,” she said. “ It helps me bear 
 it better. The shadows and the approach of 
 evening make me gloomy, and we ought not 
 to expose ourselves to temptations in our 
 trials. God helps those that help themselves. 
 When months are passed, I like the after¬ 
 noon.” 
 
44 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “ How many good thoughts you give me,” 
 said I, “ besides cheering my spirits.” 
 
 66 1 am glad if I do,” said she, “ but please go 
 slower.” The horse seemed to be in sympathy 
 again with our pleasurable feelings, quicken¬ 
 ing his pace, and soon bringing us safely to 
 our door. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 As we sat at breakfast the next morning, I 
 remarked to my wife that I felt less pain with 
 regard to that little key. I had been made to 
 feel, as never before, that God’s claim and his 
 right to the child take precedence of ours; that 
 the consecration of our children to him is 
 eminently a duty as well as a privilege ; and 
 that our principles and feelings, in habitually 
 performing the duty, ought to have a con¬ 
 trolling influence with us, if God sees fit to 
 take our children away. One pleasant effect 
 of these views was to make me feel that the 
 death of our child was not in the main a loss, 
 a total loss, as I had regarded it; but that, 
 being apart of God’s great purposes, her death 
 would appear, at some time when it would be 
 as desirable to be happy as now, the means 
 of some great good. 
 
 (45) 
 
46 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 So, instead of contriving where to place and 
 keep the key of the little coffin, I found my¬ 
 self employed in asking what good uses shall 
 I derive from it; and this led to the following 
 conversation, in one of our afternoon drives: 
 
 “You must give me that little key,” said my 
 wife, in one of these excursions. 
 
 “ Can you keep it better than I, or with 
 less risk of its disturbing your feelings?” I 
 inquired. 
 
 “You must gratify me in this thing,” said 
 she, “ without much inquiry. I will promise 
 to keep it safely, and make it as useful as I 
 can.” 
 
 “Well,” said I, “let us go to the little grave 
 together, some day, and take the key with us. 
 I should like to see how w r e shall feel there, in 
 view of our affliction, compared with our feel¬ 
 ings at the burial.” 
 
 A few months had elapsed since that event, 
 the w r eather had become fine, and so we agreed 
 one evening that we would spend the next 
 morning at the cemetery. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 47 
 
 What strange coincidences with the events 
 of the dell, there sometimes are in our casual 
 selection of passages of Scripture in our morn¬ 
 ing devotions! That morning, I opened my 
 Bible with my thoughts full of our expected 
 visit, and, for a moment or two, hardly looked 
 upon the page ; but, on beginning to read, the 
 first words which met my eyes were these: 
 “ And said, Where have ye laid him ? They 
 say unto him, Lord, come and see.” 
 
 It is as wrong to shape our conduct by pas¬ 
 sages of Scripture casually met with, as it is 
 to follow dreams, or to trust in coincidences 
 of any kind. Sad mistakes are often made by 
 interpreting such coincidences in favor of oui 
 wishes. At the same time, we may receive 
 wholesome instruction even from dreams, and 
 coincidences ought to make us pause and re¬ 
 flect, so giving to sound judgment and dis¬ 
 cretion better opportunities for reflection. The 
 occurrence of this passage, that morning, in¬ 
 volving no question of duty, certainly was 
 
48 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 tlie occasion of no harm, if it made me reflect 
 how the Holy Spirit, who indited the Bible, 
 is pleased at times to be with us when we 
 read it, and apply it to our circumstances. 11 
 is wrong to look upon passages of Scripture as 
 omens, but we may derive comfort and in¬ 
 struction from them at pleasure. This pas¬ 
 sage made me think that Jesus feels an 
 interest in the graves of our children and 
 friends; that he looks down and watches all 
 our dust, if we sleep in Jesus ; and therefore I 
 felt that he would accompany us to the grave 
 of our child. 
 
 As my wife was about to take her seat in 
 the carriage, and was putting on her gloves in 
 the parlor, I asked : 
 
 “ What passage of Scripture do you think 
 1 have just seen which is applicable to you ? ” 
 
 “ Please tell ine,” said she, without lifting 
 her eyes. 
 
 “ 6 She goeth unto the grave to weep there.’ ” 
 
 After a moment’s pause, she replied: “ Mary 
 little knew what a scene she was going to 
 
AGNES. 
 
 49 
 
 witness there. Perhaps her Friend will go 
 with us.” 
 
 "I have invited Him,” said I. " ‘Lord, come 
 and see.”’ 
 
 " And so,” said I, as we drove along, " we are 
 going to the grave in company with the 
 Resurrection and the Life. What a privilege 
 to have a grave, if it secures for us the special 
 presence of Jesus.” 
 
 " I was struck with the remark, in the ser¬ 
 mon last Sabbath,” said she, " that, of the two 
 who went to heaven without dying, God’s own 
 Son was not one of them.” 
 
 "But here we are,” said I, "at the stopping- 
 place nearest to the path ” 
 
 We walked along over ground where no 
 foot seemed lately to have trodden on the nu¬ 
 merous ant-hills where the busy little em¬ 
 mets w r ere at work. We spoke of superior 
 beings compassionating us, as we did these lit> 
 tie creatures. We stepped over and among 
 them as well as we could; for we had feelings 
 
 of tenderness toward everything. A robin 
 5 
 
50 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 ran across our path, with his head up, and a 
 worm dangling from his bill. The long 
 branches of the larch trees bowed quietly un¬ 
 der the pressure of a pleasant morning wind. 
 The stones, with their inscriptions, showing 
 their manifold histories of sorrow, seemed to 
 speak to us like people on a wreck saying to 
 some more impassioned sufferer, Think, too, of 
 us ! Our hearts beat hard, we had to summon 
 new strength, as we caught the first sight 
 of the dear little mound. We leaned on the 
 fence, and wept, apart. 
 
 a But,” said I, holding up the steps of my 
 companion, as we came nearer, “ I cannot 
 think of her as here. Have you not put 
 away her little cloak, and other things of 
 hers, in the camphor trunk ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said she; “ why do you ask ? ” 
 
 “ Because,” said I, 
 
 “ ‘ Graves are but beds where flesh till morning sleeps, 
 
 Or chests, where God awhile our garments keeps.’ 
 
 a There will be a time when this will 
 cease to be an affliction. Wo shall see at last 
 
AGNES. 
 
 51 
 
 that it was one of those * all things ’ which 
 work together for good to them that love 
 God.” 
 
 “ I try hard,” she said, " to forget myself 
 and my affliction, and to consider how I may 
 best please God, and honor him in my trial. 
 I do not wish to be comforted, but to be use¬ 
 ful ; to be made better.” 
 
 " That is the truest comfort also,” said I. 
 
 " We are very insignificant things,” said she, 
 " and our happiness or suffering ought not to 
 absorb our thoughts; but, how shall Christ be 
 magnified in us, by life or by death?” 
 
 "What an object,” said I, "that is to live 
 for! How ennobling; and how small does 
 selfish sorrow appear ! ” 
 
 " We are flesh and blood,” said she, " and 
 must weep and suffer under our trials ” 
 
 "It would be unnatural if we did not,” I 
 replied. " God expects us to cry when he 
 binds us. I went to see your friend, L., you 
 know, after her husband was brought home 
 dead. A good woman came to meet me at 
 
52 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 the door, and said: ‘ 0, Mr. M., you know what 
 sorrow is; do come up and try to stop L.’s 
 crying; she has been taking on so for six or 
 eight hours.’ L. heard this, as we entered the 
 room. 6 1 cannot help it,’ said she. 6 0, Mr. 
 M., what shall I do ? ’ ‘ Cry as much as you 
 
 please, dear L.,’ said I, ‘ it will be a relief to 
 you. Do not try to check it. I am glad to 
 see that you can cry. David’s Psalms are, 
 many of them, nothing hut spells of crying. 
 Jesus groaned in spirit twice as he went to 
 the grave of Lazarus. I am sure you have 
 enough to cry about.’ ” 
 
 “ What effect did it have upon her ? ” asked 
 my wife. 
 
 “ At first,” said I, “she wept as when a cloud 
 bursts. I sat still a few moments, knowing it 
 was only the reaction from her long effort to 
 control her feelings. At length she grew calm; 
 and, when I left her, she said, ‘ Well, I do feel 
 that underneath are the everlasting arms.’ ” 
 
 “ 0,” said my wife, “ what a world of sor¬ 
 row, and to do good in, this is; and I feel as 
 
AGNES. 
 
 53 
 
 though I wanted to go home and find out 
 every afflicted heart and be kind to it. Did 
 you bring the little key with you ? ” 
 
 I produced it. How much my feelings 
 had been mitigated since I drew it from my 
 pocket the evening after the funeral! We 
 looked at it with composure. He who turneth 
 the shadow of death into the morning, and 
 maketh the day dark with night, had been 
 gracious to me. “1 look upon that key,” said 
 Agnes,“ as a sort of ordinance, a symbol; it 
 represents a world of thought and feeling ” 
 
 “ That is a good idea,” said I, “ and let us 
 improve upon it. I begin to think that, when 
 I see this little key hereafter, it will be with 
 me as it is said of Hannah , i Her countenance 
 was no more sad/ I mean to make a good 
 use of the little key. I should love to join 
 with you, some evening, and put down in a 
 little book our thoughts and feelings in con¬ 
 nection with it. We shall read it, hereafter, 
 with great satisfaction.” 
 
 “You will forgive me.” said T ; “for not having 
 
54 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 told you that this is not my first visit here 
 since the funeral. I have been here several 
 times, but I did not wish to try your feelings 
 by alluding to it. I came out here once when 
 there were two feet of snow in this lot. This 
 little grave was hidden 
 
 “ 0, how beautiful and sad that must have 
 looked,” she said. 
 
 " It was the first time that I came, after the 
 funeral. I was glad not to see the little grave. 
 I knew it was there, safe’ beneath that beauti¬ 
 ful mantle.” 
 
 "What passages of Scripture did it make 
 you think of?” she inquired; " you are so apt 
 to see meanings in them which I do not.” 
 
 I said to her, " I thought of this: c He shall 
 cover thee with his feathers, and under his 
 wings shalt thou trust/ I felt that the snow 
 was a great white wing spread over Agnes. 
 The snow was wreathed around this silver¬ 
 leaved maple, like a calla lily around its pistil. 
 How white and pure it was: 
 
 “ 4 -the fann’d snow 
 
 That’s bolted by the northern blast thrice o’er.’ 
 
AGNES. 
 
 i 
 
 55 
 
 “I could not help weeping as I looked on 
 those exquisitely beautiful curves of the 
 snow, and I thought that the God who 
 wrought such things would not, could not, 
 deal with those who love him otherwise than 
 in love and wisdom.” 
 
 “ I wish that I had seen it,” said she. 
 
 “ You could not have waded here,” I replied. 
 “ And now here the grass is green, and the sods 
 are putting out fresh spires on the mound. 
 These changes are but c the varied God. The 
 rolling year is full of Thee/ Summer, autumn, 
 winter, spring, will come in their turn and 
 visit this little grave. God has a treasure 
 here, which he is keeping for a great purpose. 
 
 “Last week, I was here again. This one 
 thought absorbed me: The will of God is 
 better than child, or any other possession. 
 Had it been referred to me whether Agnes 
 should be restored to life, I would, on no ac¬ 
 count, have decided the question, but would 
 have referred it back again. I feel so still. 
 
 “ Let me read you some lines which I wrote 
 here last week, and then we will go: 
 
56 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 AT MY CHILD’S GRAVE. 
 
 Beneath this grassy mound 
 Sweet Agnes lies; 
 
 She cannot hear a sound, — 
 
 Closed are her eyes. 
 
 Her little form is mouldering back to clay ; 
 
 With small and great she waits the judgment day, 
 
 God’s watchful eye beheld 
 This sparrow fall; 
 
 By Him an infant’s hairs 
 Are numbered all. 
 
 God ! in thy dreadful majesty, how mild ! 
 
 O Christ! the Father, 'with Thee, loves a little child. 
 
 She, on her wondrous way, 
 
 Looks not behind; 
 
 Light sweetly breaks all day 
 Over her mind. 
 
 At the last trump she ’ll come, with angel size, 
 
 Down to this grave to watch the body rise. 
 
 What shall the body be ? — 
 
 Now, like a grain, 
 
 It dies, to bring forth fruit 
 And live again. 
 
 This little seed shall yield a shock of com ; 
 
 Out from this grave a form like Christ’s shall greet the souks 
 
 return. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 57 
 
 “ I must talk with you/' she said, “ about the 
 doctrine in the last stanzas, as we are riding 
 home” 
 
 “Last March,” said I, “it did not seem possible 
 that I could ever go away from this little grave 
 with so much peace. I feel that we have left 
 Agnes in heaven, rather than in the grave ” 
 “Now please tell me,” said she, “what 
 makes you think that children do not remain 
 children in heaven, as so many think that they 
 do.” 
 
 “ It strikes me,” said I, “ as a very earthly 
 idea, that children are to be kept forever in 
 infancy and childhood in heaven, as though 
 we should need their childhood there to make 
 us happy as it does here. And why are we 
 to suppose that the mind of a child will not 
 expand in heaven, as well as here ? Besides, 
 it seems like doing them a wrong, to keep 
 them in a childish condition forever.” 
 
 “ 0, I cannot think so,” said she. “ To be a 
 happy child in heaven forever, I think must 
 be as real bliss as to be a full-grown mind 
 
58 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 How children in heaven must be loved: How 
 interesting they must be to angels! What 
 exquisite pleasure a child has! I feel less and 
 less the power of knowledge to make us 
 happy. ‘He that increaseth knowledge in- 
 creaseth sorrow.’ Your doctrine may be true 
 for other reasons, but not, I think, because it 
 will be any wrong to a child to keep it a child.” 
 
 “I suppose you feel,” said I, “that you 
 would as soon be a member of a flower-gar¬ 
 den as of a forest.” 
 
 “ Certainly; how much more pleasure I get 
 from a calla lily than from a buttonwood,” said 
 she, laughingly. “ But that is hardly fair,” she 
 continued. “We cannot properly compare 
 flowers and trees, and give the preference to 
 one over the other. Each has its place and use. 
 Now I feel that children are to heaven what 
 flowers and birds are to nature, here; and I 
 want to have them remain so.” 
 
 “That is woman’s theology,” said I. “You 
 wish to find dear little Agnes a sweet little 
 child, twenty or forty years hence, when you 
 enter heaven.” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 59 
 
 “ T love to think so,” said she. 
 
 “ It is a hard task/’ said I, “ to argue against 
 a mother, with so much on her side that is 
 beautiful and touching, and especially when I 
 know so little about it, after all.” 
 
 “ Then, perhaps,” said she, “ you had better 
 be diffident, and not say much till you know 
 more. I think you will have the mothers 
 against you.” 
 
 “ Then I should beat a retreat, certainly,” 
 said I, “ and go into camp; for I should hate 
 to fulfil what Milton says about a woman rea¬ 
 soning with men : 
 
 “ ‘ In argument with men, a woman ever 
 Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.’ ” 
 
 “ We should refute that in this case,” said 
 she, “as in many other instances, especially 
 since we all know so little about the subject 
 for we should be hard pushed on either side to 
 prove what we suppose. But I presume that 
 it is the general belief, is it not, that the soul 
 develops in heaven, as on earth ? ” 
 
 “ Analogy seems to favor it,” said I, “ cer- 
 
60 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 tainly; but some people seem to think that 
 we are to be re-constituted into families, in 
 heaven, and that parents will gather their 
 children about them, and have what they 
 call happy homes. Therefore they like the 
 thought of infants and young children remain¬ 
 ing such. 
 
 “ But,” said I, u a father and mother, whose 
 children grew up and left them, would have a 
 solitary home, unless their children should all 
 return • but 1 certainly should not consent to 
 your leaving me to live with your father and 
 mother. More than this, would you rather 
 have Agnes for a beautiful little plaything, or 
 see her developed into a perfect form, and all 
 her powers and faculties in full bloom, capable 
 of appreciating everything ? Parents are wil¬ 
 ling, here, to send their children away from 
 them to school, as a duty they owe their chil¬ 
 dren” 
 
 “ That is because they will, of necessity, 
 grow up, and therefore must be educated,” 
 said she. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 61 
 
 “ Bat no judicious parent, apart from this,” 
 said I , 66 would prefer to keep a child in a 
 juvenile state, for the parent’s own pleasure, 
 rather than cultivate and inform its mind. 
 Growth is probably the law of heaven, as of 
 earth,—growth without decay.” 
 
 “ But what a loss it will be,” she replied, 
 “ when all the children from earth are grown 
 up in heaven. I dread to think, for instance, 
 that the time will come wdien the youngest 
 person whom I shall see from earth, will be a 
 few thousand years old.” 
 
 “ c It doth not yet appear what we shall be,’ 
 said I. “ All that we can say is, ‘ Thou hast 
 created all things, and for thy pleasure they 
 are and were created.’ In God’s own way we 
 shall each fulfil some part in his great empire 
 and plan.” 
 
 “ Well,” said she, “we will take the little key, 
 and sit down and contrive what to do with it, 
 and how it shall do us good, and do good by 
 as.” 
 
 6 
 
 « 
 
/ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It had rained very hard all day, a few 
 weeks after this, when, as we sat at tea, Agnes 
 said: 
 
 “ No one will come in this evening, and 
 now let us have that conversation about the 
 key.” 
 
 It was soon brought down from her pri¬ 
 vate drawer, in a tortoise-shell card-case, where 
 she had kept it for some time. I had writing 
 materials before me, and a memorandum book, 
 which I proceeded to dedicate to its use, by 
 writing these words on the first page : “ The 
 Key of a Little Coffin.” 
 
 “Now,” said I, “let us proceed somewhat after 
 
 this method: I will name some use, or reflec- 
 
 $ 
 
 tion, or purpose, suggested by the little thing; 
 
 and, when we have discussed it, I will write it 
 
 (62) 
 
AGNES. 
 
 G3 
 
 down here. Then it shall be your turn to 
 propose a sentiment.” 
 
 “ I fear,” said she, “ that you will have to 
 furnish most of the thoughts. But, if you 
 will begin, I will do my best. When we 
 read it over, we will recollect that it did not 
 sound so much like speeches when we talked, 
 as I fear it will from the book.” 
 
 Husband. “ One thing, then, which I love to 
 think of in connection with the little key, is 
 this: It can never be used for this purpose 
 again. 
 
 “ I feel so glad that this is not a sorrow 
 which is in anticipation. We have passed 
 through the cloud, and through the sea, and 
 the waters themselves have been a wall to us 
 on either side, the affliction itself defending 
 us from many temptations, and constituting a 
 hiding-place for us. I have been instructed, 
 and, I trust, made better; but I am .so glad 
 that I am not to pass through this trial again. 
 It is finished, and God has given us this key, 
 as it were, with those sacred words. I will 
 
64 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 record this, therefore, for a beginning. Will 
 you give me a thought ? ” 
 
 Wife . u It is an emblem and pledge of re¬ 
 opening. We use keys not merely to lock 
 up. You seem to have regarded this key as 
 a seal upon the stone. This is true, but let 
 us also think of it as an emblem and a pledge 
 of re-admission to her. She is ours still. She 
 may have ten thousand instructors in heaven, 
 but we are her parents. It seems to me a 
 great honor to be a parent of a redeemed 
 soul. How much nearer this brings us to a 
 likeness with God than angels approach ! You 
 asked me, as we came from the funeral, 
 whether I regretted all the sickness and sor¬ 
 row which Agnes cost. To have a child in 
 heaven is worth all that a parent can suffer. 
 And now, the keenness of affliction having 
 passed by, this key will seem to us like a hope 
 which is laid up for us in heaven.” 
 
 Husband. “ This suggests a thought to me. 
 The little key is a token of possession. She 
 is our precious child. Her past history, the 
 
AGNES. 
 
 65 
 
 memory of her, the happiness she afforded us, 
 the love to each other of which she was the 
 occasion, the beautiful, hallowed thoughts 
 which we shall continue to have about her, 
 are a possession which no one can take from 
 us. She was God’s gift, and she is ours still. 
 He has placed her away for a season, but has 
 given us the key, and it will make us feel that 
 we have a child. When people say to us, 
 ‘Have you children?’ we shall answer , 6 Yes, 
 one — in heaven.’” 
 
 Wife. “ It will open a way for us to sor¬ 
 rowing hearts. How much good w T e may now 
 do in comforting and instructing others. No 
 one knows what this affliction is till they have 
 experienced it. I used to think I knew all 
 about it, while condoling with bereaved moth¬ 
 ers ; but now I see my mistake. How easy 
 it seemed then to be reconciled, by thinking 
 that God did it, and that the child was better 
 off, or a great many such true and good things; 
 but now I see, that one may have every con- 
 solation, and still the affliction continue. I 
 
 6* 
 
66 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 used to think otherwise. Now I see that one 
 who loses an arm may have all Christian con¬ 
 solations; and yet, when he is reminded every 
 few moments that he has but one arm, it is 
 no less a calamity than though he had no con¬ 
 solation, only he can bear it better.” 
 
 Husband. “I must read you a passage from 
 Shakspeare, if you will excuse me a moment 
 to bring the book from the library. 
 
 “The subject seems to be, c Counsel of no 
 weight in misery’: 
 
 “ ‘ I pray thee cease thy counsel, 
 
 Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
 As water in a sieve; give me not counsel, 
 
 Nor let no comforter delight mine ear, 
 
 But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. 
 
 Bring me a father that so loved his child, 
 
 Whose joy of her is so overwhelm’d like mine, 
 
 And bid him speak of patience, 
 
 Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, 
 
 And let it answer every strain for strain; 
 
 As thus for thus, and such a grief for such. 
 
 If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard, 
 
 Cry, sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan, 
 Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk 
 With candle wasters, — bring him yet to me, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 67 
 
 And I of him will gather patience. 
 
 But there is no such man. For, brother, men 
 Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
 Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, 
 
 Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
 Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
 
 Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 
 
 Charm ache with air, and agony with words. 
 
 No, no; ’t is all men’s office to speak patience 
 To those that wring under the load of sorrow : 
 
 But no man’s virtue, nor sufficiency, 
 
 To be so moral, when he shall endure 
 
 The like himself; therefore give me no counsel; 
 
 My griefs cry louder than advertisement.’ ” * 
 
 Wife. “ Some people seem fond of preaching 
 to others in trouble; but a little sympathy, a 
 drawing near to one, a kind word, or look, or 
 token of remembrance, how it holds us up! 
 It is not so much what is said, as the manner^ 
 indicating the disposition, and making you feel 
 that you are not forsaken. ” 
 
 Husband. “ Why do you suppose the Saviour 
 took those three men with him when he was 
 going into Gethsemane ? He left them at the 
 entrance.” 
 
 * Much Ado about Nothing, Act. V. 
 
68 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Wife. “I suppose he loved to feel that he 
 had friends near. How natural this is! ” 
 
 Husband . “And what a beautiful idea it 
 gives us of the human sympathies of Jesus, 
 touched with the feeling of our infirmities!” 
 
 Wife. “But there is one way of show¬ 
 ing sympathy, which I desire to avoid, for I 
 suffered from it more than I can tell. Calls 
 on a bereaved person are, for the most part, 
 agonizing, unless there be great intimacy be¬ 
 tween the parties. In other cases, there is a 
 questioning, and a moralizing, and a probing 
 into all the secret, painful parts of the afflic¬ 
 tion, and a rehearsing of afflictions which the 
 visitor herself had passed through, which does 
 much to keep the wound from healing over. 
 I am resolved that, unless I am on very inti¬ 
 mate terms, or in a peculiar relation to a be¬ 
 reaved person, I will express my sympathy 
 merely by some message, or little gift, or act 
 of remembrance, and not by being one of 
 twenty or thirty people to make the poor suf¬ 
 ferer go over the bitter tale again and again, 
 
 
AGNES. 
 
 69 
 
 or to make her sit and endure a stiff, cere¬ 
 monious visit.” 
 
 Husband . “ Some people, like, and even 
 
 expect, such things. To me it is almost 
 so many bereavements. But I had almost for¬ 
 gotten one more thought, which the little key 
 has suggested. It is given to us by Him who 
 has the keys of death. This is one of them. 
 0, how many such keys he has! He shutteth 
 and no man openeth. Did we not know that 
 he loves us, should we not feel that he 
 mocked us, and that for an egg he had given 
 us a scorpion ? ‘ Take this key,’ he seems to 
 
 say. ‘I have taken Agnes away from you. 
 No one will question my right to do so. She 
 was mine before she was yours, and after she 
 became yours. The number of her months 
 was with me. Take this key. Keep it as a 
 mark of my sovereignty, and a badge of your 
 unquestioning submission.’ Can you assent 
 to this, my love, and shall I write it down?” 
 
 Wife. 66 1 cannot be stationary in my love 
 to God in times of affliction. I must part 
 
70 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 with him, or love him more than ever. 1 
 choose the latter. This is a new unfolding of 
 his character to us. We cannot, therefore, 
 feel toward God precisely as we did before. 
 Now, if I question his perfect rectitude and 
 love, I become an atheist; instead of this, I 
 will love him more than ever, in proportion 
 as he reveals himself, even though it be in 
 affliction.—Are you waiting for me to propose 
 a thought ? One thing I wish that this little 
 key would do for me. It must lock up un¬ 
 pleasant recollections.” 
 
 Husband. “ May I ask, before they are 
 locked up, that you will let me know some of 
 them ? ” 
 
 Wife. “We have spoken of them, you 
 know, several times. I find myself dwelling 
 on second causes, and making myself need¬ 
 lessly unhappy. If we had only sent for the 
 physician on the first day that Agnes was sick* 
 instead of letting our neighbor II. give her 
 that medicine. It weakened her, and made 
 her less able to bear the disease, which other 
 
AGNES. 
 
 71 
 
 wise she might have thrown off. But 0, that 
 thoughtless Phoebe, putting sheets on her crib 
 which had just come from ironing without be¬ 
 ing aired! The doctor said that it did harm. 
 Besides, I never felt sure that, the night before 
 
 Agnes died, the girl did not give her the 
 
 ♦ 
 
 wrong medicine. 
 
 a The doctor looked surprised when he saw 
 that the new phial, which he ordered the even¬ 
 ing before, had not been uncorked the next 
 morning. Phoebe says she gave her no medi¬ 
 cine ; I shall always feel that she gave her those 
 powerful drops, by mistake. But then, I say, 
 why dwell on these things? We did the best 
 that we knew how to do at the time. If the 
 thing itself was appointed to happen, so were 
 the means to produce it — and let all these 
 things go into the grave. Only we shall learn 
 wisdom by experience.” 
 
 Husband. “ I will gladly change this topic, 
 and say: I will not part with this key, and 
 vet I cheerfully give my child to God. 
 
 “ I heard some one say, in a sermon, that 
 
72 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 an English lady had a fine flower on a very 
 rare plant, with which she was so enraptured 
 that she wished the queen might have it; and, 
 being on suitable terms with the sovereign, 
 she had it conveyed to her. I think it is not 
 that God had the right to my child, that 
 makes me submissive; I love him, and, if he 
 wishes for my child, he shall have her, and 
 me, too. But no money, no persuasions, could 
 get this key from me.” 
 
 Wife. 66 Do let me name one thing more, 
 lest I forget it — if you had finished. The 
 little key is a symbol of individuality and 
 separateness. Sometimes I lose Agnes in a 
 great crowd of children in heaven. Our min¬ 
 ister said, that probably more have gone to 
 heaven in childhood, than in any other period 
 of life. 6 Where is our little girl ? 9 I find myself 
 saying. She is not lost in the crowd. Special 
 assignments have been made with regard to 
 her; she is in the hands of those, who, if I could 
 see them, would make me feel perfectly happy 
 
AGNES. 
 
 70 
 (o 
 
 in leaving her with them. Her grave is a 
 separate one. No other grave on earth can be 
 confounded with it in our thoughts. This 
 is the key to nothing but her little coffin. 
 And now is there not as much individuality 
 and separateness in the love and care of God 
 for her ? ” 
 
 Husband. “ Christ said of little ones, ‘ That 
 in heaven their angels do always behold the 
 face of my Father which is in heaven.’ ” 
 
 Wife. “ Pray, what does that mean ? for I 
 never understood it.” 
 
 Husband. a It means, I have been told, that 
 angels who minister to these little ones are 
 not inferior beings, but 6 presence angelsthey 
 are deemed worthy of the chiefest care, and 
 are in charge of those who can say, as the an¬ 
 gel said to Mary, 4 1 am Gabriel, that stand in 
 the presence of God.’ 
 
 “ Your thought about individuality and sep¬ 
 arateness makes me think of this: Suppose 
 that every little coffin had a little key, 
 trimmed with white ribbon, and that they 
 
74 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 should all be hung up in our sight. What a 
 wilderness of them there would be! We 
 should be unwilling to attach undue import¬ 
 ance to our little treasure; we should say, 
 Tens of thousands have suffered all that we 
 have suffered; and, at the same time, God has 
 as distinct a knowledge of our loss, and of our 
 dear child, as though she were the only ob¬ 
 ject of his care.—Let me say one thing more; 
 I believe it is my turn: I am admitted by this 
 key to companionship with all who have chil¬ 
 dren in heaven. 
 
 (C Now I do feel, after all, that there is some 
 honor and privilege in being selected by 
 Christ to contribute an infant soul to his me¬ 
 diatorial crown. I am glad that I had a flower 
 in my garden so precious that the Lord of all 
 wished to transplant it for me to his own spe¬ 
 cial care and love. A peasant is pleased 
 when a nobleman or his lady stops at his gate 
 and asks for a slip from some beautiful plant. 
 I look upon a family where there are many 
 children, and say to myself: ‘You have no 
 
V 
 
 AGNES. 75 
 
 dear little representative of your number in 
 heaven. You, parents, have never had the 
 privilege of sending a sweet envoy to the 
 court of God. You would not choose to send 
 one, nor would we choose it for you. But, 
 had God seen lit to take some little child of 
 yours to himself, I feel that you would, in 
 time, be glad, and at death your meeting with 
 it would have a rapture which would make 
 you bless God that he took away your little 
 one to enhance your joy/ Now, this little 
 key says to us, ‘You belong to that favored 
 band who, at their coming, will receive their 
 own with usury/ The key is a decoration, a 
 badge of membership. I am glad to belong 
 to such a communion, even at such cost. I 
 have a child at court. She is a maid of 
 honor. 0 Saviour! we thank thee for num¬ 
 bering us with those who are counted worthy 
 of this/' 
 
 Wifte. “ It is time to finish, for the present, 
 I suppose; but one more thought occurs to 
 
76 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 me, and, as you began, I will conclude: May 
 I take this key with me, if I go astray. 
 
 "How God can punish us ! What arrows he 
 has in his quiver ! How he knows where to 
 strike ! The little key says to us: ( Go thy 
 way, sin no more, lest a worse thing happen 
 unto thee/ Sad is it to think that in the 
 course of time we may depart from God,— 
 some wordly influences may take our hearts 
 away from Christ; we may become lovers of 
 pleasure; temptations, through prosperity, 
 may ensnare both of us; we know not 
 what we are capable of; affliction has 11 c 
 power in itself to keep us in the path of 
 duty. If we ever wander, may a sudden, ac¬ 
 cidental sight of this little key remind us 
 how perishable are earthly joys, how fading 
 its honors, how insecure its possessions, how 
 entirely God can dispose of us; and, more¬ 
 over, that, w r e were never so safe, and never 
 happier, than when we were in affliction. Let 
 as pray to God that he will use this little key 
 
 i 
 
AGNES. 
 
 77 
 
 to lock up our way, if we should seem to 
 wander from him. I really feel afraid to come 
 out of trouble. A season of affliction is freed 
 from many a snare. What was it that Bun- 
 yan’s pilgrims said when they came into the 
 valley of humiliation, and fell down and kissed 
 the flowers of the place ? It was this, I 
 think: 
 
 “ ‘He that is down needs fear no fall, 
 
 He that is low, no pride ; 
 
 He that is humble ever shall 
 Have God to be his guide.’” 
 
 Husband. “ When we have felt and said all 
 that is right and proper, the affliction remains. 
 It was intended as an affliction, and, as one 
 said, 4 This is a lamentation, and shall be for a 
 lamentation.’ Every now and then I find 
 myself thinking how old Agnes would have 
 been at the present time. There is no such 
 relaxation to a weary man as a little child. 
 How often I have hastened home from busi¬ 
 ness meetings, just for the sake of taking that 
 little child into my arms and forgetting every- 
 
 7* 
 
78 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 tiling in watching it. A parent, in the play, 
 
 says of a little child, 
 
 0 
 
 “ * He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter, 
 
 And, with his varying childness, cures 
 Thoughts that would thick my blo^d.’ ” 
 
 Wife. a 0, what a loss it is! But i the 
 Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, 
 blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ” 
 
 Husband. “ Let us agree that to-morrow we 
 will begin and see what good we can do, 
 under the influence of what we have expe¬ 
 rienced” 
 
 Wife. “I have marked out several plans, 
 and at some future time we will discuss 
 them” 
 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The anniversary of Agnes’ death and funeral 
 arrived. We passed through the first of 
 these, sustained by the thought that the burial 
 had not transpired, thus deceiving ourselves 
 with one of those stratagems in which the af¬ 
 flicted are only less ingenious than the insane. 
 And when the anniversary of the funeral 
 came, I said to myself, ‘ She was not buried 
 till the 10th, — this is Friday, the same day 
 of the week, indeed, but it is not the 10th.’ 
 When, the 10th came, we said, ‘ This is not the 
 day; she was not buried on Saturday, but 
 yesterday was the true anniversary.’ Such 
 was my weakness. 
 
 We had looked forward to these days with 
 sad apprehensions, and wished that they were 
 past. Still, we endeavored to go through 
 them, submitting to the mighty Hand that ap- 
 
 ( 79 ) 
 
80 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 points times and seasons, and does not change 
 the order of nature for any of his creatures. 
 We knew that we should suffer, and we re¬ 
 garded it as an appointed part of our trial. 
 
 So we repaired to the room where the dear 
 child died, and, as the hour arrived, never to 
 be forgotten, we prayed together, and amidst 
 tears and interrupted utterances we acknowl¬ 
 edged the perfect right which God had to be¬ 
 reave us; confessed that anything short of end¬ 
 less misery was less than our deserts; rejoiced 
 that we had a child in heaven, one treasure 
 where no thief approacheth; gave thanks for 
 the support afforded us in our trial, and espe¬ 
 cially that it had made us in any degree use¬ 
 ful to others; and we prayed earnestly, and 
 above all things, that God would fulfil his 
 purposes in this affliction, whatever they 
 might be. 
 
 That evening I brought from the post-office 
 a letter to my wife, from her most intimate 
 and endeared female friend, who had gone to 
 a distant part of the world, with her husband, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 81 
 
 to reside for several years. The letter proved 
 to be the lady’s journal for several months, 
 and it was dated a year ago and upon the day 
 that Agnes died. She began by saying: 
 “ My dearest Agnes, I know not why it is, but 
 I feel an irrepressible impulse to begin a jour¬ 
 nal for your entertainment. So I date my 
 long letter forthwith, but 0, what events may 
 betide us before this reaches you! ” The let¬ 
 ter was a most entertaining account of a 
 lady’s experience and observations in a city 
 on the other side of the globe, interspersed 
 with narratives of short voyages and travels. 
 Of course, it furnished food for thought and 
 conversation till late that night, bringing tears 
 of joy at some girlish reminiscences of school 
 days, and other tears at the congratulations 
 which it bore on hearing of the birth of our 
 
 child. < 
 
 % 
 
 “ Dated,” said my wife, “ the day that Agnes 
 died, and received on the next anniversary ; 
 how interesting! ” 
 
 “ I suppose,” said I, “ some people would 
 
82 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 wonder at ns; but I choose, at the risk of be 
 ing wrong, to see and acknowledge a good, 
 kind Hand in such coincidences. I am not 
 unwilling to believe that the all-seeing God, 
 looking at once on us and on your friend the 
 other side of the globe, devised this coinci¬ 
 dence, and has brought it about for our com¬ 
 fort. Hie stayeth his rough wind in the day 
 of his east wind/ 6 But I am poor and needy, 
 yet the Lord thinketh upon me/ ” 
 
 “ What an idea it gives us,” said she, “of 
 the omnipresence of God!” 
 
 66 And how it illustrates,” I observed, 66 the 
 ease with which God plans different events far 
 asunder in time and space, and brings them 
 together, matched and finished, in his ap¬ 
 pointed time. Just think of what it was nec¬ 
 essary for Him to do, on the waves and with 
 the winds, aud by means of the numerous 
 conveyances and the scores of men who had 
 charge of them, and of the mails, if it were 
 his purpose to bring that letter to our door, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 83 
 
 not yesterday, nor to-morrow, but on this 
 anniversary.” 
 
 a If He did all this for our little comfort,” 
 said she, “ it makes me say, as the people did 
 of Jesus at the grave of Lazarus, ‘ Could not 
 this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, 
 have caused that even this man should not 
 have died ? ’ Surely, He could have spared 
 Agnes to us, and he was willing to do so, but 
 his reluctance to make us suffer was over¬ 
 ruled by higher considerations. This letter, 
 
 # 
 
 coming to-night, persuades me to feel more 
 than ever that God is as kind and good in our 
 trials as in our blessings, if we love him.” 
 
 But the anniversary of the burial arrived, 
 — the day of the week, that Friday,— and 
 we wept apart much of the time, and when 
 we were together, we each made an effort, 
 now and then, to break the silence, for we 
 were so troubled that we could not speak. 
 After tea, I went to the post-office, with the 
 intention of returning soon and spending the 
 evening at home. 
 
84 
 
 A G N E S . 
 
 Who would have thought that T could stay 
 away till ten o’clock that night ? 
 
 I returned at that hour and found my wife 
 waiting for me in the parlor. A book which 
 she had been reading lay on the table before 
 her, and with it her handkerchief, which, as I 
 passed round, I involuntarily took up to catch 
 from it a very rare perfume, which a friend 
 from Malabar had lately given her. But un¬ 
 derneath the handkerchief lay the tortoise 
 shell card-case. 
 
 . “ 0, what have you been doing with this ? ” 
 said I. 
 
 “ Having some very profitable thoughts 
 over it,” she replied. “ But come and tell 
 me what has happened to you, for it must 
 be something strange to have detained you 
 all the evening.” 
 
 I held the card-case in my hand, and no 
 doubt I used some sign of endearment toward 
 it, for I could not help exclaiming, “ 0 what 
 a blessing is a peaceful death, an honored 
 
AGNES. 
 
 85 
 
 burial, an innocent grave.” I felt happy to 
 see that little key. 
 
 "What makes you feel so happy?” said 
 she. " Pray tell me where you have been, 
 and what has happened to you.” 
 
 " I have just come from the jail,” said I. 
 
 In her endeavors to comfort those that 
 mourn, my wife heard that a youth who had 
 been tried for his life on a charge of murder, 
 and was brought to our city jail for safer cus¬ 
 tody, was the son of a woman whom she had 
 once or twice employed in household work. 
 She had become intemperate, through domes¬ 
 tic trouble, and the son had killed his com¬ 
 panion at a gambling table. He was now 
 awaiting his execution. My wife had inter¬ 
 ested our minister, Dr. D., in the young man, 
 so that, as soon as he was lodged in our jail, 
 the clergyman sought and obtained permission 
 to visit him. 
 
 The result of his visits was, that the youth 
 gave signs of penitence, and had embraced 
 
 8 
 
AGNES. 
 
 «6 
 
 the offers of pardon through the sufferings 
 and death of Christ. 
 
 “ On my way to the post-office/’ said I, 
 66 Dr. D. met me at his door, and told me that 
 he was going to the cell, and asked me to go 
 with him. I asked Mrs. D. to come and spend 
 the evening with you, till I returned. I pre¬ 
 sume that company detained her. 
 
 “ You know that to-morrow is the day 
 fixed for the execution. Through the small 
 holes, over the doors of the cells, we saw here 
 and there a face of one and another who 
 had been aroused by the entrance of the 
 jailer after dark. Michael, your poor boy, was 
 sitting on the side of his cob-bedstead, in his 
 shirt-sleeves, as we entered, when he shook 
 hands with Dr. D., looking at the same time 
 at me, and, as I could not but think, with the 
 thought flashing through his mind whether I 
 had come with any message of hope or relief. 
 
 “ I saw a silver can on his rough table, 
 and took it up, thinking that it looked fa¬ 
 miliar, and there was the inscription, ‘ Agnes : 
 
AGNES. 
 
 87 
 
 from her Grandmother.’ He saw me looking 
 at it, and said that a kind lady had sent 
 him some broth Jn it. Did you send it in 
 the can purposely ? ” 
 
 “ I w r as looking for something else/’ said 
 she, “ and saw the can; and the contrast 
 between Michael’s mother and myself, as to 
 our children, struck me so, that I could not 
 help sending it as an acknowledgment of 
 God’s mercy to me.” 
 
 “ As I held the can in my hands,” said I, 
 “the same thought occurred to me, and I 
 said to myself, ‘I will take the cup of sal¬ 
 vation, and call on the name of the Lord.’ 
 I told Michael that I knew the lady, and 
 this was a sufficient introduction. 
 
 “ Dr. D. began to talk with him about the 
 Lord Jesus Christ, and opened to him, as he 
 observed he had often done before, the great 
 truth of the gospel, free and full remission 
 of sins to every one who accepts and pleads 
 Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, as the sacrifice 
 for sin. 6 Michael,’ said he, ‘ what could you 
 
88 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 do now without an atoning Saviour, one that 
 has suffered for you ? Your day of grace is 
 nearly out; you cannot live to atone for 
 your own sins, even if it were possible ever to 
 do it. But the Son of God has answered all 
 the demands of justice for you by bearing 
 your sins in his own body on the tree. Man 
 cannot justly pardon you; he cannot make 
 any substitution for your punishment which 
 would answer the ends of justice, as your own 
 death will do. But God can, as it respects all 
 your sins, and now you are going to the bar 
 of God before this time to-morrow, pleading, 
 ‘Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ 
 that died.’ ” 
 
 Wife. “How did Michael look? Was he 
 crying ? ” 
 
 Husband . “ I shall never forget his posture, 
 
 his action, his emphasis, as, with his head on 
 one sicle, his neck bare, and in his stockinged 
 feet, he lifted up his head and said : 
 
 “ ‘ Dr. D., I am such a sinner that nothing 
 makes me feel safe only that God’s own Son 
 
AGNES. 
 
 89 
 
 died for me. I was telling the turnkey, ‘It’s 
 all the same as God. He was God. I can’t 
 puzzle it out, only I know he was God — fum¬ 
 bling over his testament and reading John 
 1:1,—‘ And the Word was God.’ The fact is,’ 
 said he, ‘I am afraid I sent Dick Ross to 
 misery; he was as wicked a sinner as I am, 
 and that’s as bad as can be; and now I 
 ought to go there, too; it seems as though I 
 could n’t get along, no how, without going 
 there, too; it’s so just, you see, for I can’t pay 
 for it no way nor no shape ; it is n’t worth the 
 first red cent all I can ever do, and I made 
 up my mind to go and suffer, till you told 
 me how God could save me, Christ wanted 
 to save me, and Christ suffered what would 
 have been the same as hell for me. Now 
 you ’re sure, Doctor, that this is all so, I sup¬ 
 pose — and this gentleman, does he think so 
 too ? — My goodness,’ said he, smiling, 6 1 
 need n’t ask, for I ’ye had such feelings here, 
 that I did n’t know what to make of ’em; 
 only it’s too much; I don’t know why He 
 
90 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 wants to save me. He had n’t ought to save 
 me, so to speak, and I have told Him so, but 
 something kept putting these words into my 
 mind, ‘ won’t cast ’em out, won’t cast ’em out/ 
 c save ’em to the outmost,’ — and I set up and 
 sung that Methodist hymn, — 0, how I used 
 to sing it through my nose to mock the folks 
 at the Methodists’, and I learnt it by mock¬ 
 ing ’em, — so I set up and sung it last night, 
 as loud as I could, and the people here all 
 round cried out to me not to make such a 
 racket, but go to sleep.’ ” 
 
 “‘And the prisoners heard them,’” said my 
 wife. “What was the hymn ? Why did you 
 not ask him to say it to you ? ” 
 
 “We did,” said I. 
 
 “ He folded his arms, and raised his eyes, and 
 
 ♦ 
 
 sung: 
 
 “ ‘ "When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down, 
 When I w r as sinking down, sinking down; 
 
 Jesus resigned his crown, Jesus resigned his crown, Jesus 
 resigned his crown, 
 
 To save my soul.’ 
 
AGNES. 
 
 91 
 
 “ In tlie third line, his hands were unfolded, 
 and were lifted up with his eyes. 
 
 “‘Now/ said he, ‘that’s as true as preach¬ 
 ing, and if Christ wants to save me, I shall let 
 him, and all I can do will be to praise through 
 all eternity. 0, *1 wish I had n’t laughed at 
 good folks so. But there, I’m to be saved; but 
 if He had n’t died for me He could n’t have 
 proved it to me, nor made me believe it. And 
 if he hadn’t have been God, nothing could 
 have made me feel that there was any grounds 
 to stand on. What touches God, you see, is 
 dreadful, — it’s beyond everything, and if 
 God did it, it covers everything. Doctor,’ 
 said he, ‘ I ain’t afraid to die ; it’s short; I ’ll 
 fix my eyes on Christ, and feel that I’m 
 going straight to him. 0, poor Dick! he 
 lived till morning, and they had a minister 
 to him, and may be he’s saved; how he ’ll 
 shake hands and forgive me ; but, if he isn’t, 
 must I be lost because he is? or hasn’t 
 Christ a right to pick out w r hom he’s a mind 
 to, all as bad as the rest, and save him for 
 
92 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 nothing? What shall I do if he doesn't? 
 0, he will, he will! ‘Of whom Pm chief:' 
 no sir, beg your pardon, Michael Runy is that 
 same; how they will look up to see me com¬ 
 ing ! ‘ Why, there's Michael Runy, that mur¬ 
 dered Ross.' Well, it’ll teach’em something 
 they never knew before. Doctor,' said he, 
 c don’t you never preach nothing but this: 
 you tell people, as strong as you can, that 
 God wants to save every mother’s son of 
 'em. Step in among them men and boys that’s 
 smoking afore the bank every Saturday eve¬ 
 ning, and tell them about Michael Runy and 
 Jesus Christ. There ain’t one of ’em, if ye ’ll 
 speak kind and affectionate like, but what ’ll 
 hear you and thank you; and nothing else 
 but talking to them about Jesus Christ will 
 touch ’em.’ 
 
 “ He would have gone on all night with his 
 wonderful How of thought and words. I 
 wished that I could have had all the divinity 
 students in the land in that cell and corridor, 
 to hear that dying man’s lecture on the atone- 
 
ment, and his exhortation on preaching 
 Christ. 
 
 “ But Dr. D. said to him : ‘ Your mother told 
 me, yesterday afternoon, Michael, that you 
 wished to be baptized. Do you ? I should 
 like to do it for you if you wish. ’ 
 
 “‘Yes, sir/ said Michael, ‘I asked mother if 
 she would he willing t© come too, and she 
 said, No, she wasn’t good enough herself. 
 Says she, ‘ Mike, if I had only had you 
 trained up in the ways of the Lord, you’d have 
 never come to this.’ ‘ Well, no matter,’ says 
 I, 6 mother, don’t take on so; only turn about 
 yourself, and get religion, and look out for 
 David and Madge, — they’re young; and if 
 you’ll give up that cursed drinking, mother—’ 
 ‘ I will,’ says she, ‘ Mike, I have n’t tasted no 
 sperits sence the constable took you from din¬ 
 ner that day; and I won’t. I had a bottle 
 under the table, but I flung it away.’ ” 
 
 “ Did you know,” said my wife, u that he 
 was once engaged to be married to a very re¬ 
 spectable girl, a cousin of our cook ?” 
 
94 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “ He told us so,” said I. “ Dr. D. asked him 
 why he wished to be baptized ? ” 
 
 a 6 Euthy Dewire,’ said he, ‘ that married the 
 blacksmith’s son down by the little bridge, 
 used to company with me till she was con¬ 
 verted, and when she saw she couldn’t change 
 me, she left off going with me. I went to see 
 her taken into the Methodists’. She was the 
 only one. She took her bonnet off, and 
 kneeled down, and the minister read a little 
 end took her hand, and put bison her head. 
 It was solemn, very solemn, ’specially when he 
 said those words over her, ‘ Father, Son, and 
 Holy Ghost.’ I felt that them three were 
 taking notice of Euthy, she that used to go 
 with me, and I couldn’t understand why such 
 solemn names were said over her. I asked 
 her about it. She said it meant that she was 
 given up to them to take care of her, and she 
 was to mind what they said to her in the 
 Bible. Euthy seemed so holy after that, I 
 should have broke off from her if she had n’t; 
 it made me so solemn to look at her after 
 
AGNES. 
 
 95 
 
 that. But you can tell me, Doctor, more 
 about what it means/ 
 
 “ ‘ In the first place/ said Dr. D., ‘you must 
 not feel that it will save your soul/ ‘ 0, I 
 don’t/ said Michael; ‘ that’s done ; the Lord 
 did that/ ‘ I am glad you feel so/ said Dr. 
 D.; 6 being baptized helps you feel that God 
 and you make a covenant together ; you give 
 yourself up to him. He also gives you a seal 
 of his being yours. You promise to renounce 
 sin, as eating the bread and wine is a promise 
 to love and obey Christ, and a help in doing 
 it. Water cannot wash away sins, of course; 
 it signifies our purpose to put them away. I 
 wish your parents, Michael, had been good 
 people, and that you had been godly while 
 growing up, and that your parents had helped 
 you put off sin and brought you up for God. 
 But now you can turn to God and be accepted 
 by him; for the promise is “ Whosoever con¬ 
 fessed! and forsaketh his sins shall find mercy/’ 
 “‘And, while you thus put off sin, God 
 
96 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 promises to be your God, and he writes his 
 name upon you, and takes you to be his. 
 Do you understand all this, Michael ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Every word of it, sir; my grandmother 
 made me say the Bible and Irymns to her 
 every Sunday night, in the old country, and I 
 guess she prayed for me; and God has skipped 
 over my father and mother, and remembers 
 her prayers; but, when we came over here, 
 father and mother fell out, and father died, 
 and mother got into a bad way. 0, do look 
 after mother, won’t you ? Tell her how 
 grandmother’s talk all comes back to me, 
 and makes me see things quick, and under- 
 stand them.’” 
 
 “ Have you not sometimes noticed this,” 
 said my wife ,— 66 a child of vicious parents 
 turning out remarkably well, or, like this 
 boy, becoming a Christian; and, on inquiry, 
 found that some near ancestor of his had been 
 distinguished for piety ? But do not let me 
 interrupt you.” 
 
 “ ‘ Michael,’ said Dr. D., ‘do you truly re 
 
AGNES. 
 
 97 
 
 pent of all your sins, and do you wish to put 
 away sin ? ’ 
 
 a Michael ‘Ido, sir.’ 
 
 “ Dr. D. ‘ Do you believe on the Lord 
 Jesus Christ, the Saviour of sinners, and that 
 he came from heaven to suffer and die on the 
 cross for you ? ’ 
 
 “ Michael ‘ That I do, sir, surely/ 
 
 “ Dr. D. ‘ Do you know, Michael, that in 
 those days the cross was their gallows, and 
 that the Son of God died, as you will die to¬ 
 morrow, only worse, but without sin ? ’ 
 
 “ Michael ‘ 0, my soul, Doctor, I never 
 thought of that/ 
 
 “ Dr. D. ‘ Yes; for it is written, ‘ Cursed 
 is every one that hangeth on a tree/ Christ 
 was ‘made a curse for us/ Now, even poor 
 prisoners like you, who are going to the gal¬ 
 lows, need not despair, for Jesus Christ,“ whom 
 they slew and hanged on a tree,” died for them/ 
 “He dropped on his knees, and cried: ‘0 
 Lord Jesus Christ, now I know it will not be 
 hard to die. Them nails, for me ! and them 
 
 9 
 
98 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 thieves! and the thorns! and how they mocked 
 him, and spit on him, and him the Son of 
 God! Lord Jesus, I am another dying thief; 
 Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy 
 kingdom.’ 
 
 “ The turnkey moved round and looked out 
 through the grated door, as though he heard 
 a noise without, but I saw him draw his whole 
 shirt-sleeve across his eyes, after he had 
 turned away. 
 
 “ Baptism was then administered, the jailer 
 having provided means for a decent perform¬ 
 ance, of the rite. Dr. D. read the account, in 
 the Acts of the Apostles, of the jailer’s bap¬ 
 tism.” 
 
 “It was now half-past nine. Michael had 
 risen, and had been whispering to the turn¬ 
 key, and then said, ‘ Doctor, could you pos¬ 
 sibly stay here all night?’ The Doctor told 
 him that he would stay with pleasure. I 
 have just called at his house to inform his 
 family. There are many worse things,” said 
 I, “ than having a little child taken from you 
 
AGNES. 
 
 99 
 
 to heaven. What a perfectly safe place it 
 is!” 
 
 “ Well,” said my wife, “I am glad that you 
 spent the evening so. It was as good for you 
 as the letter the other evening was for me.” 
 
 66 Had it not been for the little key,” said I, 
 “ probably you would not have been led to take 
 the interest in Michael which has led to such 
 good results. How much I thought of clear 
 little Agnes, while I was in the cell this even¬ 
 ing. But tell me how you have spent the 
 evening. I should have had no peace had 
 I thought you were alone.” 
 
 “ I have been trying the power of uncon¬ 
 ditional submission to God, apart from all con¬ 
 solations,” said she. “ I am afraid of making 
 terms with God. People used to comfort me 
 by suggesting a great many good things in the 
 way of consolation, but this is the only true 
 comfort, I think : 6 Thy will be done.’ * The 
 cup which my heavenly Father hath given me, 
 shall I not drink it? ? ” 
 
 “I think you are right,” said I. “It is 
 
100 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 delightful to let God see that you can trust 
 and love him, when you cannot understand 
 him. This looking out for compensation 
 in affliction is mercenary and selfish. It 
 is good to let the Most High do anything 
 with us, and we he still and know that he 
 is God. Nothing touches us more than 
 a patient, meek spirit, and a cheerful be¬ 
 havior, in another, when under reproof from 
 us. It must make God love one whom he 
 has greatly afflicted, to see him cheerful in 
 his sorrow and hear him praising God. Even 
 in evil men, such submission moves the com¬ 
 passion of God. ‘ Seest thou how Ahab hum- 
 bleth himself before me ? I will not brum 
 
 o 
 
 the evil in his days.’ 0, this unconditional 
 submission to God, as God — it is the height 
 of piety. I try to go about my work in 
 doing good to others with more love to God 
 than though he had not taken Agnes from us. 
 I wish to show him that I love him better 
 than I love his gifts. How many things hap- 
 
AGNES. 
 
 101 
 
 pen, like this contrast of Michael’s end, to 
 help ns in doing so ! ” 
 
 “ I suppose,” said she, a that it is right to 
 accept of consolations and helps; only let the 
 consolations be in the superstructure, and let 
 the foundation of comfort he the will of God.” 
 
 “ I think you have it in the right order,” 
 said I; u but see how late it is.” 
 
 After prayers, I took the tortoise shell card- 
 case with me to my private room. I stood 
 where I did just a year ago, the evening after 
 the funeral, with the little key in my hand. 
 1 thanked God that I had such a child in such 
 a grave; and, in praying for Michael and his 
 mother, I thought what a privilege it was 
 to have that little key as the exponent of my 
 affliction, instead of such memorials of her 
 child as his mother would carry with her to 
 the grave. In the morning 66 1 awaked, and 
 
 beheld, and my sleep was sweet unto me.” 
 
 9 * 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 We attended the funeral of a little child in 
 whom my wife had become interested during 
 its sickness. It was a noble boy of three years 
 of age, who died of croup. Such beautiful 
 golden hair, flowing over its face and into 
 its bosom I never saw: The features were 
 not affected by any previous disease; all hut 
 the pale, icy look, which death brings with it, 
 made you feel that the child was asleep. 
 
 The father was a drover. He was a stout, 
 
 coarse-looking man, with a very large head, 
 
 which he leaned back against the ceding 
 
 where he sat, rolling it to and fro, with his 
 
 mouth open, the tears running down with no 
 
 effort to conceal them or wipe them away, 
 
 and every now and then he would beat with 
 
 his head against the wall. The poor man 
 
 ( 102 ) 
 
AGNES. 
 
 103 
 
 made me think of one of his own bullocks, 
 drawn by a rope and windlass to the slaugh¬ 
 ter. His wife was a small, delicate woman, a 
 Christian; but he was wholly neglectful of 
 religion and its ordinances. 
 
 I sat near him at the funeral, and wept 
 with him. No one could refrain. Being on 
 intimate terms, I asked him if I might go to 
 the grave with him. 
 
 “ 0 do, sir,” said his wife ; “ I know he will 
 be so glad to have you. I try to comfort Mr. 
 Burke, but you know better how to do it.” 
 
 “ Go in our carriage,” said he, “ will you ? ” 
 
 “Ask your wife to go with us,” said she; 
 “ the ride will do her good.” 
 
 So we found ourselves with them on our 
 way to the same cemetery where Agnes lay. 
 
 “Amore beautiful sight,” said I, “probably 
 was never beheld than your dear little boy in 
 his coffin. It makes me feel that the words 
 in a hymn by George Whitfield, whom you 
 
104 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 have heard of, the great preacher, are some¬ 
 times true: 
 
 “ Ah, lovely appearance of death! 
 
 No sight upon earth is so fair; 
 
 Not all the gay pageants that breathe 
 Can with a dead body compare.” 
 
 “Your only child, too,” said I. “Do you 
 think that there is any God, Mr. Burke ? ” 
 
 Mr. B. “ Well, I know there is.” 
 
 Mr. 31. “ You know, too, that he did this ” 
 
 Mr. B. “ Of course. He does everything.” 
 
 Mr. M. “You cannot feel perfectly wil¬ 
 ling, I know, that he should do this; you 
 would not be a natural father if you did.” 
 
 Mr. B. “ 0,” said he, taking off his hat 
 and throwing his head back, convulsively, sev¬ 
 eral times, “ I wish I was dead; I don’t want 
 to live. If that was the end of me, like an 
 ox, I should be glad to be killed.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ My dear sir, you are going to see 
 the day when you will say that the death of 
 this dear little boy was the best thing that 
 
 i 
 
AGNES. 
 
 105 
 
 ever happened to you. Only be patient and 
 try to be quiet.” 
 
 Mr. B. "How can I?” Then he began 
 to cry aloud. 
 
 It is dreadful to hear a man cry. The dis¬ 
 tressing, inarticulate, choked noises which he 
 made, set his wife into a violent weeping; but 
 it was composing to listen to her grief com¬ 
 pared with his. 
 
 I thought of an expedient to divert his 
 mind. " Let me show you something which 
 will interest you,” said I. 
 
 I took out the tortoise shell card-case, and, 
 waiting some little time to get his attention 
 fully, I said: 
 
 "There is something in this which once 
 made me weep just as you do, Mr. Burke. 
 I have cried over it like a child. I do not 
 wonder at your crying, and I could hardly 
 believe once that I could see it now without 
 the same distress which I felt then, and which 
 you now feel.” 
 
106 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “Do tell” said he; "I’ve no idea what it 
 can be.” 
 
 The little key was produced. I asked him 
 to read the inscription on the ribbon. 
 
 Mr. B. “Well, I suppose you keep her 
 things locked up, and this is the key of them.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ No, my dear sir, it is the key to 
 her. She is locked up, and this did it. They 
 are going to give you just such a key; I saw 
 the undertaker put it in his pocket when he 
 left the house.” 
 
 “ 0, how can you keep it?” asked his wife ; 
 “I should think it would distract you every 
 time you see it.” 
 
 “ I told my husband the same,” said my 
 wife, “ when I found that he had brought 
 it away from the grave. But we take great 
 pleasure in it now.” 
 
 Mrs. B. “ I wish you would take ours and 
 keep it for us.” 
 
 Mr. M. “We will talk about it by and by. 
 But only look out here ” (for we were within 
 the cemetery), “and see how many little 
 
AGNES. 
 
 107 
 
 stones there are over little graves. Some 
 parents have been here with their little chil¬ 
 dren before us, Mr. Burke” 
 
 Mr. B. “ My stars, how thick they are! 
 Wife, just look out here: there are two,three, 
 five small graves in one lot. Do you suppose 
 they all belonged to the same people ? ” 
 
 Mr. 3L “ It is a vale of tears, Mr. B. If 
 all these parents who have lost children were 
 here, they would come and shake hands with 
 you, and say, ‘Mr. Burke, we know what it is; 
 don’t be cast down; hope in God.” 
 
 Mr. B. “I declare, I never felt that I 
 could have a moment’s comfort; but I do pity 
 all these people so, who have buried so many 
 children! Dare say some of them were as in¬ 
 teresting as mine. But 0,1 can’t get over it. 
 O, George, dear little fellow, must we leave 
 you here in that awful grave ? 0, if I had n’t 
 
 been born! ” 
 
 Mrs. B. “Don’t, husband, I beg of you. 
 Other people have suffered just so, and got 
 over it. Here are Mr. M. and his wife, and 
 
108 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 I’m sure it was as hard to lose their little 
 Agnes. See how they feel now. It’s because 
 they are Christians, and if only you were one 
 I should n’t feel half so bad; for,” said she, 
 “ there’s another parting with George that ’ll 
 be worse than this.” 
 
 Mr. *B.— 66 Can’t be worse than this, no how; 
 nothing can be worse than this.” 
 
 Mr. 31. — “ 0, my dear sir, only think that 
 you must die and appear before God. Well, 
 perhaps little George comes to meet you, so 
 glad and happy, and says: ‘Father, have you 
 really come? Mother is here,—-we ’re waiting 
 for you.’ But you are affrighted, and find you 
 have no Saviour, and must go away. How 
 would you bear to be separated from George 
 then ? Now, you hope to meet him again; 
 but then you will bid him farewell for ever, 
 and think of him and his mother in heaven, 
 and you shut out. Which is worse, that, or 
 this funeral ?” 
 
 He put his face on his hand, rested his 
 elbow in his other hand, looked out of the 
 
AGNES. 
 
 109 
 
 carriage, and did not speak for a few minutes, 
 till finally he said: 
 
 “ All children go to heaven, I suppose.” 
 
 “ I think they do,” said I. “ But they owe 
 it to Christ if they do. Should they grow up 
 here, they would grow up sinners, and there¬ 
 fore they need to be born of the Spirit, in 
 order to enter heaven; and this they receive, 
 we suppose, through Christ, who died for 
 them. Did you ever commune Mrs. Burke ? ” 
 
 “ 0 no,” said she, covering her face with her 
 handkerchief and weeping. “Mr. Burke could 
 never be persuaded, and I did not wish to go 
 alone. He used to say he felt ashamed to 
 stand up before so many people; and, besides, 
 he never saw any great use in it.” 
 
 “ I don’t feel so now,” said Mr. B. 
 
 “ How would you do now ? ” inquired I. 
 
 “ Why,” replied he, “ I would please my wife. 
 I see now what a comfort it would be to her, 
 though I do not see into it. I wish we could 
 do it at the grave, if I was good enough.” 
 
 I fell to repeating those words: “There is 
 
 10 
 
110 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wis¬ 
 dom, in the grave whither thou goest.” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said Mr. B., “ he would n’t have 
 been taken away from us if I had offered him 
 up, as wife called it, with prayer to God.” 
 
 “ Our little girl who died was offered up”said 
 my wife. “ That makes no difference.” 
 
 a But 0,” said Mrs. Burke, “ what a com¬ 
 fort it must be to you now! I had some spells 
 of crying over it.” 
 
 “ 0, don’t talk about that, wife,” said Mr. B.; 
 66 you know I would n’t do the same now.” 
 
 “ I did n’t mean to reproach you, my dear,” 
 said she, “I was only thinking aloud. You are 
 very kind to me, only w T e never thought just 
 alike, you know.” 
 
 I said: “I cannot but hope that you will; 
 God may make this the greatest blessing to 
 both of you.” 
 
 We had been winding slowly up hill and 
 down hill, stopping to let other carriages pass 
 on their return; arid at length we came to a 
 remote part of the inclosure, a very humble 
 
AGNES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 place in it, where Mr. Burke, at the request of 
 his wife, had, the day before, secured a very 
 cheap lot, which she said she wished to feel 
 was her own, and which she could visit and 
 plant with flowers. 
 
 “So Jesus slept,” said I, as we stopped. 
 
 “ ‘ God’s dying Son 
 
 t* 
 
 Pass’d through the grave and bless’d the bed.’ 
 
 “ This is like the Saviour’s buryii:g-place 
 ‘ wherein was never man yet laid.’ ” 
 
 We were the only persons present, except 
 the two men in charge of the burial. The 
 parents were strangers to almost every one, 
 having recently come among us. 
 
 The little coffin was laid upon the grass. 
 The undertaker took a key from his pocket, 
 opened the lid, and let it lean back. 
 
 The mother kneeled, and laid her hand on 
 the little breast, and bent over her child, with 
 expressions of love and grief which we could 
 not but join to increase. The father was 
 turning away, and was looking down into 
 the grave, as though he had hurried to the 
 
112 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 very brink of the calamity, and was desper¬ 
 ately in haste for the worst to come. I put 
 my arm through his. “ This will be a pleas¬ 
 ant place/’ said I, “ on the morning of the 
 
 resurrection, to little George.” 
 
 Mr. B. “ There’s room enough for us all 
 three. I wish I was to be laid here with him.” 
 
 Mr.M. “You are not ready yet, my dear 
 sir; you must live, and be a good man, and 
 do a great deal of good, and prepare to meet 
 wife and child in heaven.” 
 
 Mr. B. “They don’t take such people as 
 me there.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ But you will be a different man 
 yet. ‘ The Lord gave, and the Lord hath ta¬ 
 ken away;’ try to say, ‘and blessed be the 
 name of the Lord.’ ” 
 
 Mr. B. “ It’s no use to say it, if you don’t 
 feel it.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ 0, dear Mr. Burke, you will not 
 quarrel with God at your little son’s grave. I 
 doubt not George is in heaven; he is perfectly 
 happy,— happier than he could be here. No 
 
AGNES. 
 
 113 
 
 more trouble and sorrow, no more sin; he is 
 safe, and Jesus has saved him. You will not 
 leave him here. It is no more to him than 
 though you were burying that little Scotch- 
 plaid frock and trousers, which my wife says 
 he had on when she first saw him. God 
 has done the very best thing which he could 
 for you and George; you will not find fault 
 with Him. Could you see all the effects of 
 this affliction, you might feel very much 
 ashamed to blame God. He can make this 
 thing the means of the greatest happiness to 
 you. 
 
 “ Besides,” said I, “ think what a great God 
 he is. Look over this cemetery, and think 
 how terrible his doings are. ‘ Behold, he tak- 
 eth away! who can hinder him ? Who can 
 say unto God, What doest thou?’ But ‘he 
 maketh sore and bindeth up; he woundeth 
 and his hands maketh whole/ He has taken 
 your little boy from you to heaven, and it 
 almost distracts you. See how God can afflict 
 us. 0, let us make him our friend. ‘Who 
 
 10 * 
 
114 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 hath hardened himself against Him and hath 
 prospered ? ’ ” 
 
 Mr . B .—“If them men will wait for us, I 
 wish yon would make a prayer” 
 
 “ 0, be as long as you please, sir,” said the 
 men, respectfully, while they withdrew and 
 leaned over a rail-fence near by, 
 
 I told him that, if he wished for it, I would 
 offer prayer. “You had better close the lid,” 
 said I, “ while we pray; I am afraid the sight 
 of the little face will prevent you from joining 
 in prayer ” 
 
 “ Please don’t shut it down tight,” said the 
 mother. “ If we only had something to keep 
 it a little ways open,” said she, looking about 
 her. 
 
 I took the tortoise shell card-case and laid 
 it edgewise, so as to keep the lid open about 
 three inches. I had it in my heart to bless 
 God that he had given me that card-case with 
 its contents, it seemed such a privilege to use 
 it in this way. IIow little did I ever think 
 that it would come to such a scene, in which 
 
I 
 
 AGNES. 1 j 5 
 
 its possessor would be acting the part of com¬ 
 forter to the parents of a deceased only child, 
 at that child’s grave, in the same cemetery 
 from which I first carried away the little key. 
 
 The grass was short and dry, the ground 
 was safe to kneel upon, and we four kneeled 
 around the coffin. 
 
 THE PRAYER. 
 
 “Will God look down upon us, as we come 
 to render up this precious dust into his hands. 
 
 “ ‘ I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, be¬ 
 cause thou didst it.’ 
 
 “‘When thou with rebukes dost correct 
 man for his iniquity, thou makest his beauty 
 to vanish away like a moth. Surely every 
 man at his best state is altogether vanity.’ 
 
 “ 6 The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
 away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ 
 
 “We have sinned against thee, and death is 
 by sin, and so death passed upon all men, for 
 that all have sinned. 
 
 “Thou art pleased to spare children, and 
 
116 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 make them a comfort to their parents; and 
 again thou takest away, and none can stay 
 thy hand, or say unto thee, What doest thou ? ’ 
 
 “We know not wdiieh is best for us; we are 
 short-sighted. Thou seest the end from the 
 beginning, and hast in view everything relat> 
 ing to each case, and thy decisions are wise 
 and good. 
 
 “ It is not for us to call in question thy wis¬ 
 dom in this event. We could have wished it 
 otherwise; but the will of the Lord be done. 
 
 “ Thou hast taken this little child to thyself, 
 saved it by Christ. While we journey on, 
 amidst darkness and tempests, with sins and 
 sorrows, he will behold thy face, grow up to 
 be like Christ, and come again at the last day 
 to this grave, and receive a body like unto 
 Christ’s own glorious body. May we be com¬ 
 forted by this, and strive to have a part with 
 him in that resurrection. 
 
 “ May these dear parents remember that 
 there is to be a meeting with their child, and 
 that the question then will be, whether they 
 
 4 
 
AGNES. 
 
 117 
 
 are prepared for heaven. Let them not be 
 separated from each other and from the child. 
 Make its death the means of winning them 
 both to God and heaven. 
 
 “ Be pleased to sustain them in this hour of 
 trial. May he who knelt in Gethsemane, and 
 prayed that the cup might pass from him, re¬ 
 member them.. May they remember him who 
 then, for their sakes, said, 6 Nevertheless, not 
 as I will, but as thou wilt.’ 
 
 “ May they remember how many hearts 
 have bled like theirs; that God has not sent 
 upon them a greater trial than he has often 
 prepared for others, and that he is able to 
 turn it into the richest of blessings, by making 
 them love and serve God. 
 
 “We now, in obedience to thy most holy 
 will, commit this dust to the earth as it was. 
 We cling to it, we would keep it, but thou 
 hast said, c Dust thou art, and unto dust thou 
 shalt return.’ We bow before thy righteous 
 mandate. In the name of Jesus, the Re- 
 
118 
 
 AGNES 
 
 deemer, forgive the sins which subject us 
 to thy just displeasure here and hereafter. 
 
 “ When they go back to their desolate 
 home, comfort their hearts. May they not 
 feel that they have left their child in the 
 grave, but direct their thoughts to heaven * 
 where their treasure is, there may their hearts 
 be also. 
 
 “And now help us to take the last look, and 
 go through the parting, with our eyes fixed 
 on Christ, whom at the last day we expect to 
 see in the clouds over this cemetery, coming 
 to judge the living and the dead. May this 
 grave not be a place of mourning to us then, 
 but of rejoicing; and meanwhile may our con¬ 
 versation be in heaven, where the dear child 
 is, and where Jesus is, and where we shall be 
 if we are followers of Jesus. 
 
 “ And may the God of peace, who brought 
 again from the dead the Lord Jesus, that great 
 Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of 
 the everlasting covenant, make us perfect in 
 every good work, to do his will, working in 
 
AGNES. 
 
 119 
 
 us that which is well pleasing in his sight, 
 through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for 
 ever. Amen.” 
 
 We took up the body and buried it. We 
 saw the little mound made into shape; the 
 parents stood in silence over it, weeping, when 
 a sudden clap of thunder, from a cloud con¬ 
 cealed by the hill near us, gave a new direc¬ 
 tion to their thoughts, and led us to hasten 
 into the carriage from the storm. 
 
 Before we left the cemetery, the rain came 
 down, and the thunder and lightning were 
 terrific. 
 
 “ I enjoy this,” said I. 
 
 “ You do?” said Mrs. B.; “I am always 
 afraid of being struck; but to-day I have no 
 fear” 
 
 “ I wish we were safe at home,” said Mr. B. 
 
 “ I love to see and hear God in his works,” 
 said I: 
 
 “This awful God is ours, 
 
 Our Father and our Friend.’ ” 
 
120 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “ How safe we are, Mr. B., with such a God 
 on our side.” 
 
 Mr. B. “0, Mr. M., I would give all the 
 world to feel as you do about God.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ To lose a dear child, and then 
 to feel rightly about it toward God, is among 
 the surest means to make you love God. 
 There is probably nothing that brings God 
 and us nearer together than to lose a child, 
 and now you will have the opportunity to 
 show God what your feelings are toward him. 
 Would you really love and serve God if you 
 could?” 
 
 Mr. B. “That I would; for I begin to 
 feel that I must have God on my side if I 
 would be well off.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ There is one thing which I 
 would give more to have you do than any¬ 
 thing else.” 
 
 Mr. B. “ I ’ll do anything for you, sir, 
 you’ve been so kind to us.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ But 0, you do not know what 
 
AGNES. 
 
 121 
 
 it is. You will, I fear, refuse, and say you 
 cannot do it; but you can if you will.” 
 
 Mr. B. " Then I ’ll die but what I ’ll do it!” 
 bringing his fist down upon his knee. " I al¬ 
 ways do what I set out for.” 
 
 " Tell us what it is,” said his wife. 
 
 " It is something,” said I, "which will please 
 Mrs. B. more than anything you can do.” 
 
 " Set up prayers,” said she. 
 
 "Yes,” I replied; "how came you to guess 
 it?” 
 
 "I’ve prayed for it ever since v r e kept 
 house,” said she. "Husband, did you hear?” 
 
 " Mr. B.,” said I, " after tea, take your Bible 
 and read the twenty-third Psalm, and then 
 kneel down with your wife, and pray to 
 God.” 
 
 He turned pale and red alternately; a 
 mighty struggle arose within him; he pulled 
 up the end of his frock-coat and gathered it 
 into inch pieces, pressing them all together, 
 then pulling the cloth out straight, entirely 
 lost in thought, till at last he said : 
 
 11 
 
122 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “Well, wife, I ’ll do it. I had my way about 
 the baptism ; now you shall have yours. If 
 God will help me, I’ll say something; but I 
 don’t know how to pray.” 
 
 “ We know not what to pray for as we 
 ought,” said I; “‘but the Spirit itself maketh 
 intercession for us with groanings which cannot 
 be uttered.’ The more you have of them, Mr. 
 R, the more acceptably you will pray. God 
 will understand it; for he that searcheth the 
 hearts knoweth what is the mind of the Spirit, 
 oecause he maketh intercession for the saints 
 according to the will of Gock” 
 
 Mr. B. “ Come over and pray with us, Mr. 
 M., this evening, and help me, and we ’ll see 
 what w r e can do.” 
 
 After tea, I went in and read the Bible, and 
 endeavored to lead the afflicted father to the 
 Saviour of sinners. I then proposed to lead 
 in prayer, and he engaged to follow. I prayed 
 much of the time, as in his name, making sim¬ 
 ple confessions and petitions. He followed, 
 in broken sentences and evidently with a bro- 
 
AGNES. 
 
 123 
 
 ken heart I felt that the crisis was past; 
 that he had submitted himself to God; that, 
 as a lost and perishing sinner, he had accepted 
 Jesus Christ as his atoning sacrifice; and his 
 feclirgs with regard to the death of his child 
 were those of submission, though grief was 
 yet swelling within him in great billows; for 
 the sea had not gone down, though the moon 
 and stars appeared. He became a consistent 
 Christian, joined the church, took a seat in 
 the choir, he having a splendid baritone voice ; 
 and sometimes, when I have listened, I could 
 not be mistaken in the feeling that the sub¬ 
 duing influence of affliction had raised him in 
 the scale of being, and had opened suscepti¬ 
 bilities in him which made him tenfold more 
 of a man than he was before, besides enduing 
 him, through grace, with that which made him 
 a new creature, and had changed his pros¬ 
 pects for eternity. 
 
 Several months after that, he called, with 
 his wife, at my house, very respectably 
 dressed, being now the owner of a provis- 
 
ion stall in a large market, and in protit* 
 able business. His countenance was changed. 
 It was refined, urbane, full of feeling; he was 
 gentle and affectionate; he was a happy man. 
 
 “ Do you know,” said he, “ what became of 
 that key of ours the day we buried our little 
 boy? Wife thinks that it was left in the lock.” 
 
 “ I brought it away with me,” said I, 66 and 
 have kept it safely. I thought that it would 
 only harrow your feelings for me to give it to 
 you there, so long as you had not spoken 
 about it, and did not think to take it with 
 you” 
 
 I brought it to him in a little box, which I 
 had caused to be turned from a piece of an 
 oak limb which had fallen from a tree in my 
 lot in the cemetery, during a high wind. I 
 had written the name of the child, with the 
 dates of its birth, death, and burial, and its 
 place of burial, on the ribbon. They looked 
 at it together, while different emotions chased 
 one another over their faces. He gave it 
 
AGNES. 
 
 125 
 
 to his wife, who wrapped it in her handker¬ 
 chief and placed it in her reticule, saying that 
 she believed the best thing that God had ever 
 done for her and her husband, was to make 
 them the owners of that key. 
 
 t T* 
 
 A V 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There are some tilings which God does to 
 us, perhaps, with the simple object of making 
 -■s feel that he is God. Then a controversy 
 arises between us and him, the issue of which 
 is fraught with permanent consequences for 
 good or evil in our characters and condition. 
 If some in affliction could express all that 
 they think and feel, they would tell us that 
 they do not like the character and the doings 
 of the Almighty, as they understand them. 
 They would say : We cannot help this. Men 
 make impressions on our minds according to 
 their character and conduct. These impres¬ 
 sions are involuntary. We do not feel com¬ 
 placency in the character of the Almighty, as 
 we view it. 
 
 Such was the sad, the fearful state of mind 
 
 in an Infidel, as I was talking with him about 
 
 ( 126 ) 
 
AGNES. 
 
 127 
 
 the loss of his three children, who died within 
 a year and a half of each other. His second 
 child, a daughter of seventeen, was drowned 
 in a pleasure party; his oldest child, a son of 
 nineteen, fell a victim to the cholera in a 
 Western city; and now his infant and his wife 
 had just descended into one grave. The 
 child, a w r eek old, lay on its mother’s arm 
 in the coffin. Several hundreds of people 
 had been to view the sight; and many a 
 spectator grew faint as he felt the mighty 
 hand of God in that dwelling, and said, “What 
 desolations He hath made in the earth ! ” 
 
 It was toward sunset on Sabbath evening. 
 I had been on an errand for a minister, re¬ 
 specting the supply of his pulpit for the even 
 ing service, and was coming through one of 
 the parks on my way home, when I met this 
 bereaved husband and father strolling list¬ 
 lessly along, looking dejected and pale; and, 
 
 when lie saw me, he lifted his eyes without 
 raising his head. 
 
 “Which way are you walking?” I said to him. 
 
128 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 He had formerly visited in my father’s family, 
 and we were on pleasant terms. 
 
 “ 0” said he, “ nowhere; I came out to get 
 away from myself, and from my tomb of a 
 house. Sundays are awful things to a man 
 like me.” 
 
 “Well, now,” said I, “Mr. Winn, I was 
 praying for you last evening, if you will ex¬ 
 cuse me for speaking of it; for never in my 
 life did I feel so toward a human being as I 
 have felt toward you. Some lines of Crabbe 
 have occurred to me in connection with your 
 wife’s untimely death: 
 
 “ ‘Then died lamented, in the strength of life, 
 
 A valued mother and a faithful wife; — 
 
 Xot when the ills of age, its pains, its care, 
 
 The drooping spirit for its fate prepare, 
 
 But all her ties the strong invader broke 
 
 In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke.” * 
 
 Taking out a little Bible which I always 
 carry with me, I said: 
 
 u In thinking of you, last evening, I turned 
 
 * The Sudden Death and Funeral. — Crabbe’s T les. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 129 
 
 and read these words of Jeremiah in his Lam¬ 
 entations,, which, it seemed to me, you could 
 so appropriately use : 
 
 “ ‘ I am the man that hath seen affliction by 
 the rod of his wrath. 
 
 “ 6 He hath led me and brought me into 
 darkness, but not into light. 
 
 “ 6 Surely against me is he turned ; he turn- 
 eth his hand against me all the day. 
 
 “ ‘ My flesh and my skin hatli he made old ; 
 he hath broken my bones. 
 
 “ ‘ He hath budded against me, and com¬ 
 passed me with gall and travad. 
 
 “‘ He hath hedged me about, that I cannot 
 get out; he hath made my chain heavy. 
 
 “ ‘ He was unto me as a bear lying in wait; 
 and as a lion in secret places. 
 
 “ 6 He hath turned aside my ways and pulled 
 me in pieces; he hath made me desolate. 
 
 (U He hath bent his bow and set me as a 
 mark for the arrow. 
 
 “ c He hath caused the arrows of his quiver 
 to enter into my reins. 
 
130 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “‘He hath filled me with bitterness; he 
 hath made me drunken with wormwood. 
 
 “‘He hath also broken my teeth with 
 gravel stones; he hath covered me with 
 ashes. 
 
 “ ‘ And thou hast removed my soul far off 
 from peace ; I forgat prosperity/ 
 
 “ You could hardly express your trouble in 
 so many and such various terms, Mr. W. 
 They all apply to you; and what a book 
 the Bible is, containing everything suitable to 
 each case ! ” 
 
 He made no remark, and I added : 
 
 “ Job, too, was brought to my mind by your N 
 bereavements. All his children were cut off.” 
 
 “ Yes, but his wife was left. She was not 
 much, I am inclined to think; yet he had 
 somebody to talk to, and to be with him. I 
 wander all over my house, and there is not 
 one place where I feel that I can sit down. 
 It is haunted by some association, or it seems 
 so lonely that I change the place but keep 
 the pain. 0, Mr. M., if 1 had the manage^ 
 
AGNES. 
 
 131 
 
 ment of affairs, I would not excruciate men in 
 this way.” 
 
 “He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve 
 the children of men,” said I. 
 
 “Willingly or not,” said he, “ it is done; and 
 how can I think well of one who does this ? 
 Now, I am a rational creature; I have sense 
 and reason; I am not a machine or beast. I 
 must judge of things as they are, and I cannot 
 bow my affections to a being whom I cannot 
 love. I suppose that I am worse than people 
 in general in this thing, but I cannot help it, 
 my feelings are involuntary ” 
 
 “ I do not think that you are worse than 
 people in general, by any means,” said I, “ in 
 having those feelings. Thousands have them 
 who do not express them as you do.” 
 
 “ Now,” said he, “ that is the only decent 
 thing which has been said to me for a fort¬ 
 night past. My relations are all Presbyte¬ 
 rians, church-going people, and they think me 
 a regular blasphemer.” 
 
 “ But,” said I, “ it is a poor compliment to 
 
132 
 
 A GNES. 
 
 say that you are no worse than thousands who 
 like you, have a carnal mind which is enmity 
 against God; for it is not subject to his law ; 
 neither indeed can be ” 
 
 " That is rather plain language,” said he. 
 "You certainly are not the man to be of¬ 
 fended at the truth, Mr. W., after uttering 
 yourself as plainly as you have to me re¬ 
 specting the Most High ! ” 
 
 "Did I say,” said he, "that I was an enemy 
 to God ? I take it, that I may feel repug¬ 
 nance to a character, and yet not be an enemy 
 to the man who bears it ” 
 
 I replied : " If a man thoroughly dislikes his 
 wife, with a settled aversion, is not his mind 
 enmity to her? Yet you would not call him 
 her enemy. But suppose a man to be utterly 
 opposed to the measures of a king, and that he 
 refuses to submit to him, and neglects every 
 duty toward the government, talks to others 
 against it, and his actions are in opposition to 
 it; is he not justly called an enemy of the king? 
 
AGNES. 
 
 133 
 
 Surely he would be treated as such, under 
 whatever name he might be arraigned” 
 
 “ He might not be a personal enemy to the 
 king,” said he. 
 
 “ As to all purposes of loyalty he is a rebel,” 
 I replied. “How remarkable it is that Christ 
 sums up the wdiole moral law in this : ‘ Thou 
 shalt love the Lord thy God, and thou shalt 
 love thy neighbor.’ God makes religion, that 
 is, our duty, to consist in, and flow from, love. 
 Would it have satisfied you had that dear son 
 of yours written to you, saying, ‘ Father, I am 
 not your enemy, but I feel an utter repug- 
 nance to you ? I do not, and I cannot, love 
 you.’ What if you should have said to your 
 wife, c Let us separate; I am not your enemy, 
 but I totally disapprove of your principles 
 and conduct, and take no pleasure in you.’ 
 All this you feel toward God.” 
 
 “ Well, I know I do,” said he ; “ and a man 
 may be perfectly justified in feeling so toward 
 his wife, and a son toward his father.” 
 
 “Justified,” said I, “if the characters of the 
 12 
 
134 
 
 A G X E S. 
 
 father and the wife are really such as these 
 alienated minds assert. Allow that, in the 
 judgment of competent people without num¬ 
 ber, they are, on the contrary, eminently 
 lovely and good, what would that prove as 
 to the son and the husband ? ” 
 
 “ It would prove that men differ honestly 
 about the same things,” said he. 
 
 I replied: “If a little child at table says, 
 ‘Mother, my milk is sour/ and the mother 
 tastes it and finds it perfectly sweet; and, the 
 child still insisting that it is sour, the mother 
 hands it to two or three grown people, and 
 they also say it is perfectly sweet, what 
 then ? ” 
 
 “Why,” said he, laughing, “ either the child’s 
 taste is out of order, or its temper.” 
 
 “ Mr. Winn,” said I, taking the tortoise shell 
 card-case out of my pocket and drawing forth 
 the little key, “ there is the key of my little 
 daughter’s coffin, as lovely a child as ever drew 
 the breath of life. My child! my child! God 
 took her away from me. Your children and 
 
AGNES. 
 
 135 
 
 your wife were your all. Agnes and my wife 
 were my joy; the child is dead, and my wife is 
 hastening after her. The bitter sorrow awaits 
 me which you have drunk to the full. How 
 does this make me feel toward God ? ” 
 
 “I should like to hear,” said he, “interrupt¬ 
 ing me.” 
 
 “Mr. Winn,” said I, “it makes me say, 
 ‘Whom have I in heaven but thee ? and there 
 is none upon earth that I desire besides thee. 
 My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the 
 strength of my heart and my portion for ever.’ ” 
 “ I presume you do not mean, by all that, 
 that you love him better than before ? ” 
 “Better than before?” saidI. “There is no 
 comparison that does justice to the case; I 
 love him, I worship him, I serve him, so far as 
 my desires are concerned, as I never did. 
 6 Though He slay me, yet will I trust in him.’ ” 
 “ It is a mystery to me,” said he, “ and I 
 suppose it is to you. It must be what you 
 call sovereignty, or election,—something over 
 which you have no control.” 
 

 136 AGNES. 
 
 “Why” said I, “ you said just now, speak' 
 ing of yourself, ‘ I am a rational creature * I 
 have sense and reason; I am not a machine 
 nor a beast/ Will you allow me to be the 
 same in these respects as yourself? ” 
 
 “ Then,” said he, “ how does it happen that 
 you and I view the same things in such a 
 totally different light ? ” 
 
 “ Neither you nor I, nor any other man,” 
 said I, “ is the standard of truth. There is a 
 common standard, — the Word of God” 
 
 66 1 wish I had more confidence in it,” said 
 ne, interrupting me. 
 
 “IIow improbable it is, Mr. W.,” said I, 
 a that a benevolent God would leave his crea¬ 
 tures without some common standard of truth, 
 which would be the arbiter among their con¬ 
 trary judgments and moral sentiments. This 
 argument in favor of a divine revelation con¬ 
 vinces me that the Bible is the Word of God. 
 He who gave us the magnetic needle, he who 
 has made the human hand, and the eye, with 
 such wise and benevolent adaptedness to our 
 
AGNES. 
 
 137 
 
 wants, would not, he could not, fail to supply us 
 with such a means of instruction and comfort 
 as a revelation from himself. He knew that 
 the greatest desire of his creatures would be, 
 to have authentic information of the character 
 and the wishes of the Being who holds them 
 at his will, and of the way to please him, — 
 to say nothing of other things, which would 
 make a revelation indispensable. There must 
 be such a revelation, Mr. W. Did not the 
 astronomers, witnessing the perturbations of 
 Uranus, say, ‘ There must be a planet beyond 
 him, to account for these disturbances 9 ? Did 
 they not calculate where the undiscovered 
 world must be, and settle its distances, and 
 weight, and orbit, by rules which required all 
 which they afterward discovered ? I say that 
 such a system as that under which men live, 
 requires that there be a divine revelation, if 
 there be a benevolent God.” 
 
 “ 0,” said he, 66 you go too fast and too far. 
 I have not settled the point that there is such 
 a benevolent Being.” 
 
133 
 
 AGNES . 
 
 “My dear friend,” said I, “you cannot 
 mean that your sufferings counterbalance all 
 those proofs which Dr. Paley, for example, in 
 his Natural Theology, quotes from every side 
 to show the goodness of God ? If you are an 
 exception to the general law of goodness, let 
 it be so, and account for it in a rational way ; 
 do not impugn the wisdom and goodness of 
 God in the whole structural economy of ani¬ 
 mate and inanimate things.” 
 
 “ How shall I account for it, then, that I am 
 an exception ? ” said he. 
 
 “I deny that you are,” said I. “You could 
 not count up the number of those who have 
 suffered as much as you. That peculiar trials 
 should have fallen to the lot of any is to be 
 explained hereafter, and not perhaps in this 
 life ; and an old writer says, c Quarrel not with 
 God’s unfinished providences.’ You have no 
 doubt that your wife and little child have 
 gone to heaven.” 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 “ Your other daughter, too, I learn, was a 
 
A G N E S. 
 
 139 
 
 Christian. Suppose your son, also, to have 
 been prepared to die ; and suppose, now, that 
 you could look in upon your whole family in 
 heaven, would you feel that some great calam¬ 
 ity had happened to them ? Might not some 
 there say, What family is this? Whom has 
 God loved and honored so, that he has trans¬ 
 ferred them together here ? There they are, 
 a constellation of four stars in the firmament 
 of heaven, known by some name, perhaps, 
 and as beautiful to spectators as the Southern 
 Cross, or Pleiades, with a vacant place in their 
 arrangement waiting for you.” 
 
 “ That makes my present loss and pain no 
 less,” said he. 
 
 “ But,” said I, “ seventy years are a small 
 part of our whole existence. God may have 
 judged that the very best way to secure your 
 usefulness here, and your eternal happiness, 
 w r as to take all your family to heaven. There 
 you may see that the greatest kindness God 
 ever bestowed upon you was to bereave you, 
 and thus to keep you from having your por- 
 
140 
 
 AGNES, 
 
 tion in this life. He broke up your nest, and 
 took you on his wings, and bore you abroad. 
 He is now seeking to win your confidence and 
 affection, that he may save you. Are you 
 aware, my dear sir, that God loves you ? ” 
 
 “ He cannot be what you say he is, if he 
 can love me,” said Mr. W. 
 
 “ Because He is what he is, He loves you 
 with infinite compassion; but not of course 
 with complacency. His feelings towards you 
 are those of infinite benevolence. You w r ill 
 be as welcome to his favor and to eternal 
 happiness as any man. I am persuaded that 
 the peculiarity of your afflictions is a proof of 
 peculiar regard for you; God is making pecu¬ 
 liar efforts to save you. Do not frustrate them. 
 These clouds may be full of mercy. How 
 much your family in heaven must love you! 
 How must that dear wife long to show you 
 the little babe, which, under her tuition in 
 heaven, has become perfect in beauty! 0, can 
 you bear to think of being separated from 
 them forever, Mr. Yvh?” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 141 
 
 “ I don’t see but I must/’ said he, “if all }’ou 
 say is true.” 
 
 “No one but }’ourself will be to blame if 
 } t ou are not saved/’ I replied. “God has used 
 the severest method to detach you from earth. 
 He now admonishes you, by what you have 
 suffered, that future and endless separation 
 will be intolerable. Speaking to the Israel¬ 
 ites, he tells them of their sufferings when 
 they shall be separated from their children by 
 enemies in war. “ Thy sons and thy daugh¬ 
 ters shall be given unto another people, and 
 thine eyes shall look and fail with longing for 
 them all the day long.” How insupportable 
 home-sickness is to a husband and father in a 
 foreign land, thinking that the ocean lies 
 between him and his home. What weari¬ 
 ness and restlessness }’ou feel now, as you miss 
 your wife and children. The world is a sepuf 
 chre to you. What would you do hereafter, 
 to find that the}’ are together in heaven, and 
 } t ou banished from them ? ” 
 
 “Well, I wish that I had not been born,” 
 
142 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 said he; cc and, if there were such a thing as 
 annihilation, I would soon find it.” 
 
 “ Better be a happy spirit in heaven through 
 eternity, as you may be,” said I. “ The time 
 will come when you will look on all these 
 troubles with a peaceful mind. I love to say 
 those words to myself: ‘Thou which hast 
 showed me great and sore troubles, shalt 
 quicken me again, and bring me up again 
 from the depths of the earth. Thou shalt 
 increase my greatness, and comfort me on 
 every side.’ I shall not wonder if I see you 
 settled again, in a happy home, your feelings 
 mellowed and chastened by affliction, and 
 you in possession of rich joys, and exerting 
 great influence by reason of your experience. 
 God ‘maketh sore and bindeth up • he wound- 
 eth ’ and his hands make whole. He shall 
 deliver £hee in six troubles; yea, in seven 
 there shall no evil touch thee.’ ” 
 
 He began to wipe his eyes and to smile, 
 as he said: “ Hope is a blessed medicine, after 
 all; Pandora shut down the lid of her box in 
 
 
A GNE S. 
 
 143 
 
 good time when she kept Hope behind, after 
 she had let out all our plagues .” 
 
 “ That is a good fable/’ said I; “ but there 
 is a better Scripture for you: ‘Now the God 
 of hope fill you with all joy and peace in 
 believing, that ye may abound in hope through 
 the power of the Holy Ghost/ What a name 
 that is, Mr. W.,— ‘the God of hope/ ” 
 
 “ I am glad I met you,” said he. “ I begin 
 to think that I have been very foolish. 
 There’s no use in being; so stubborn. 1 
 have stood in my own light. If I had done 
 better, I might have escaped these troubles.” 
 
 “ I am glad to hear you bemoaning your¬ 
 self,” said I. “ Now turn to God, my dear sir, 
 humble yourself to him; for he is God and 
 you but dust. ‘ Humble yourselves, therefore, 
 under the mighty hand of God, that He may 
 exalt you in due time/ ” 
 
 ■‘ Whether he exalts me or not,” said he, in 
 a somewhat excited way, which startled me, 
 “ you have made me feel that I have a duty 
 to perform. Walk in,” said he, as we came 
 
144 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 to his door. He rang the bell. A middle- 
 aged woman opened the door a little ways, 
 and peeped out, knowing that she was alone 
 in the house, and feeling suspicious of every 
 one who came to it. 
 
 66 1 want you to go with me,” said he, “ to 
 the spot where my wife died.” 
 
 The chamber was a little darkened, the 
 blinds being partly shut. The full bed, with its 
 snowy white drapery, had an affluent look. 
 The door of a cedar-wood closet stood open, 
 and there hung a lady’s dresses, making me 
 start at the thought of my intrusion into such 
 a sanctuary; while I remembered, too, what 
 mournful relics they were to this bereaved 
 man. A little feature in a sad scene fre¬ 
 quently occupies the chief place in our 
 thoughts, and here my eye was caught by 
 the sleeve of a dress which hung out, with the 
 bend in it made by the wearer’s arm! How 
 sick at heart did I feel; and what I should 
 to my friend in my frame of mind, I 
 
145 
 
 AGNES 
 
 did not know, when I was surprised by the 
 sound of his voice in prayer. 
 
 I looked round, and he was at the farther 
 side of the bed, kneeling, and lifting up his 
 folded hands upon the white coverlid. I shall 
 
 • 
 
 never forget his w r ords. I stole round and 
 knelt at some distance from him, while he said : 
 
 “ 0 God, it is all right. I am a sinner. I 
 am glad that there is One who is mightier 
 than I am, and has conquered me, a rebel, 
 and brought me to Ins feet. 0, how much it 
 took to bring me down. It is all right; I 
 yield; do with me what seems good. For 
 the blessed Jesus’ sake, have mercy on a poor, 
 desolate, lost, miserable sinner. Please do not 
 let me suffer so forever. Save me from 
 myself. 0, my wife! my wife! my chil¬ 
 dren ! I never prayed with them. I might 
 have ruined them if they had lived. God! 
 thou hast snatched them away from their 
 wicked father; and now, 0, if God means 
 to save the father too — what a God he must 
 be, and — ” 
 
 13 
 
146 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Here he fell into incontrollable sobbing, and 
 buried bis face in the side of the downy bed. 
 
 After a while I ventured to follow him in 
 prayer, commending him to the infinite Friend 
 and Saviour of sinners, leading him in my 
 supplications to the Lamb of God which tak- 
 eth away the sin of the world. 
 
 I shall always believe that, in that moment, 
 he was reconciled to God through the death 
 of his Son. On that spot, where his wife 
 ascended to glory, he found eternal life, so 
 that I said with myself, “Glow dreadful is this 
 place! this is none other than the house of 
 God, and this is the gate of heaven.’ ” 
 
 “ Mr. M.,” said he, “ I shall sleep here to¬ 
 night. I have always been afraid to come 
 into the room. Now I should love to spend 
 my days and nights here. 0, what a God he 
 is! Do you think he can forgive and forget 
 all my wicked words against him ? When he 
 
 has been trying to do the very best thing for 
 
 • • 
 me, what a shame that I should be treating 
 
 him so. How is it that he spares men who 
 
AGNES. 
 
 147 
 
 act as I did ? 0, if I don’t spend my life in 
 
 making people love him! How came He to 
 
 send von to me in the Park ? You must have 
 
 %/ 
 
 had a revelation. It could not have been an 
 accident. Let me see that card-case again. 
 That little key fitted the lock on my heart, 
 and you got into it. How old was she ? Do 
 tell me all about her.” 
 
 We were summoned down to his tea-table, 
 though I had already taken tea before leav¬ 
 ing home. The table was beautifully and 
 richly spread. 
 
 .• ‘ “ These initials on this china have an inter¬ 
 esting tale, I suppose, to you,” said I. 
 
 “Mr. M.” said he, “I am in a new world. 
 Everything is changed. When I took up 
 these sugar-tongs and saw these embossed 
 initials of my wife’s name, a pang went 
 through me; but it was followed, for the 
 first time, by a feeling of peace, and even of 
 joy. I have something to live for now. God 
 is better than family, heaven is more than 
 earth ; to do good is all that life is worth. 
 
148 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Do help me, and set me at work. Have you 
 not some poor people that I can visit? If 
 any of them are in trouble, let me know it. 
 Excuse me; you asked about the china, — I 
 hardly think of anything that belongs to this 
 world. Yes,, it came from Hamburg, a wed¬ 
 ding present from her mother; but how it 
 has lost its value to me in a day. How little 
 she cares for it. What are all these treasures 
 worth ? I have property, you know; but it 
 could not give health nor save life. My house 
 is full of valuable things, and now I should be 
 willing to give them all away and be a mis¬ 
 sionary, if I were fit. Do tell me everything 
 about that little key. I suspect, by your 
 carrying it with you, it has had some great 
 effect upon your feelings. Now I think of 
 it, I know that undertaker has one that 
 belongs to me. Yes, it was locked, I am 
 sure,” said he, with a thoughtful inclination 
 of his face ; “ the coffin was locked before I 
 Caine out of the tomb, I remember. I heard 
 the little click. I must go to-night, — no, it’s 
 
AGNES. 
 
 149 
 
 the Sabbath, — I will go to-morrow and get 
 that key.” 
 
 “ Do so,” said I. “ You will find it to be 
 the richest and most useful treasure, next to 
 the Bible, which ever came into your hands.” 
 And after much conversation, I bade him 
 good-night. 
 
 “God bless you, my dear sir,” said he. 
 “Do not regret leaving me alone, now; the 
 house seems full of God. You have done 
 good to one miserable sinner; keep on, and 
 God help you to bless many like me.” 
 
 What a walk was that to my house! I took 
 the little key and bathed it with kisses and 
 tears. Dear little Agnes! you have done 
 great good already by your death. “0 Lord, 
 our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all 
 the earth, who hast set thy glory above the 
 heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and 
 sucklings hast thou ordained strength because 
 of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the 
 
 enemy and the avenger.” 
 
 ( 13 *) 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Visiting some friends, I found a man who 
 had often conversed with me about a great 
 affliction which had happened to him eighteen 
 months before. 
 
 He had long been dejected, had separated 
 himself from the world, and spent much time 
 in reading the Bible and in prayer. 
 
 He told me that all this seclusion and seem¬ 
 ing devotion had no good effect upon him; 
 but the contrary. He, too, had lost a child, 
 and then his wife. It had made him almost 
 insane. The loneliness of his situation was 
 his greatest affliction, on account of the brood¬ 
 ing melancholy which it occasioned. Unhap¬ 
 pily, he was obliged to follow a sedentary life, 
 
 « 
 
 being a very able accountant, and spending 
 his time at home over books and sheets of 
 figures, which were deposited with him by as- 
 
 ( 150 ) 
 
AGNES. 
 
 151 
 
 signees. He was a man of education, of 
 great refinement of taste and feeling, and in 
 easy circumstances. 
 
 The day that I called to see him, I was sur¬ 
 prised to find him unusually cheerful and 
 happy. I expressed my wonder, and asked 
 
 him if anything good had happened to him. 
 
 * 
 
 “ Sit down here on this sofa,” said he, “ and 
 I will tell you all about it. You know that I 
 have been in the depths of misery ever since 
 I met with my bereavement. How much I 
 have prayed over it I cannot tell you. Never 
 was it out of my thoughts for many moments 
 at a time. It would come over me suddenly 
 while adding up a column of figures, and put 
 everything out of my mind. I could not for¬ 
 get her, nor my dreadful agony when she 
 died, and at the funeral and the grave. 0, 
 how I have prayed to God, day and night, that 
 he would relieve me ! Sometimes, however, 
 I have kneeled down to pray about it, and all 
 my feeling seemed to depart. I was as dead 
 
152 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 and cold as a stone. I began to understand 
 what Coleridge describes: 
 
 “ ‘ A grief without a pang, void, drear, and dark, 
 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
 
 Which finds no natural outlet and relief, 
 
 In word, or sigh, or tear.’ * 
 
 “ I said a few incoherent words, and went 
 away, feeling that I had no religion, reproach¬ 
 ing myself that I could treat my Maker in 
 such a manner. Then I would relent and 
 again ask God to comfort me; but praying 
 only seemed to make my sensibilities more 
 keen, and to press my bitter loss upon them. 
 
 “ One evening, as I was kneeling and pray¬ 
 ing about it, and finding that I was going 
 through the same process which for so long a 
 time had resulted in disappointment, it sud¬ 
 denly struck me that I must help myself. I 
 had a feeling of resolution come over me, 
 which I think was in answer to prayer. I 
 resolved that I would no longer be such an 
 
 * Dejection. — Coleridge's Poems. 
 
AGNES. 
 
 153 
 
 impotent creature. I plainly saw that God 
 could not help me except as he made me help 
 myself, and I resolved to use means of relief in 
 dependence on God. 
 
 “The first thing I did, was to accept an 
 invitation to a select party, made in honor of 
 some friends of mine. I had shut myself out 
 from all such scenes for more than a year; and 
 now, though I had no more relish for them 
 than before, I resolved that I would mix with 
 society, not to be entertained, but to make 
 others happy. I went to the party with that 
 resolution. It was, some would think, an 
 incongruous thing to go to a party under the 
 influence of a text; but why should it be so ? 
 I thought of this : c The Son of man came not 
 to be ministered unto, but to minister.’ That 
 evening I spoke with almost every soul in the 
 room. Those whom I did not know, I asked 
 to be made acquainted with, and exchanged 
 pleasant words with them, found that some of 
 them were old acquaintances of my parents, 
 and some went to school with my sisters, and 
 
154 
 
 A G IN E S . 
 
 some told me what frolics they and I had 
 when we were children together, and others 
 related their great sorrows; till at last I found 
 that I was really a happy man, — younger by 
 ten years than a day before. I saw some of 
 them look at me, and overheard one say to 
 another, ‘What do you suppose has happened? 
 Engaged again ? ’ I went home resolved that 
 I would no longer live to myself. When I 
 went to my room that night, the first thing I 
 did was to repent of my thousands of prayers. 
 How selfish, how wrong they seemed. 0, 
 how God must .have regarded me, a droning, 
 morbid creature, refusing to do and to enjoy 
 anything because I had been afflicted, and 
 asking God to do an impossibility. I never 
 before truly submitted myself and my trouble 
 to God; my prayers were complaints, mur- 
 murings, if not impeachments; but I began 
 to see and feel the power of that word, ‘ Be 
 still and know that I am God.’ I do believe 
 that the best help which we can have in afflic- 
 lion is that which, by God’s grace, we are 
 
AGNES. 
 
 155 
 
 enabled to give ourselves, using our common 
 sense, availing ourselves of expedients to 
 assist and cheer the mind, resorting to va¬ 
 rious methods of changing the current of 
 thought, making waste-locks and wiers to 
 diminish the strength of the tide, and toll in 
 supplies of new thoughts and feelings for our 
 help” 
 
 “ Had you no alternations of feeling ? ” said 
 I. “ Did not your sorrows come back without 
 leave ? ” 
 
 “ Of course they did,” said he ; “ but I took 
 care to barricade myself against them. Short 
 journeys I found useful • entertaining, cheer¬ 
 ful books, especially those of a scientific, 
 descriptive kind, which led to no intro¬ 
 verted contemplation, but kept my thoughts 
 out at pasture; humorous writings, the news 
 of the day, anything which would take my 
 attention and hold it by an intrinsic interest, 
 so that I did not feel that I was practising arts 
 with myself, did much to help me.” 
 
 Dut did you not thereby lose something 
 
156 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 of your spiritual-mindedness, your interest in 
 prayer ? 
 
 “Far from it. My prayers became more 
 like the Epistle of James; works and faith 
 met in them • I had a good conscience ; I was 
 living to make others happy; I had become 
 reconciled to God. Besides, I had more true 
 religious enjoyment than before, from Scrip¬ 
 tural truths.” , 
 
 “ That is what I should be glad to hear you 
 speak of more at large,” said I; “for what¬ 
 ever illustrates the Word of God is exceed¬ 
 ingly precious.” 
 
 “Well” said he, “one day I read this pas¬ 
 sage, 6 The night is far spent, the day is at 
 hand/ It came to my mind, How soon I shall 
 be in heaven. Perhaps even now I am on the 
 very verge; perhaps in a few days I shall be 
 with God. How sorry I shall be if I spent 
 my time in useless weeping, when relief was 
 all the while so near. 
 
 “ I thought also of these words: c If thou 
 faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is 
 
AGNES. 
 
 157 
 
 small/ It is sublime to bear the fearful 
 strokes of God’s providence with meekness 
 and firmness; to endure; to show one’s self 
 a man. IIow true this is : 
 
 “ ‘God did anoint thee with his odorous oil, 
 
 To wrestle, not to reign.’ * 
 
 “ I have felt that terrible calamities are 
 
 i 
 
 great blessings to the spirit of a man who 
 knows how to suffer. To such a man, a great 
 affliction from God is like a great blast in a 
 quarry,— it throws out great treasures, or it 
 opens a way for great projects. I revere a 
 man who is in great affliction. God seems to 
 have selected him, like a piece of second- 
 growth timber, for an important work. It is 
 not every one who can be trusted to suffer 
 greatly. I look with great respect upon an 
 honest man who has fallen into disfavor and 
 is greatly abused.. Many a time, when we 
 were boys, you know, we were attracted to an 
 apple tree in a pasture, by the great number 
 
 * Miss Barrett. — “ What are we set on earth for ? ” 
 
 14 
 
153 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 of clubs and stones which lay under it, show¬ 
 ing that the fruit had attracted notice. To 
 angels in heaven, a good man enduring suffer¬ 
 ings well, must be a sublime sight; for suf¬ 
 ferings and faith are no part of their expe¬ 
 rience ; but to see a mortal bearing the afflic¬ 
 tive hand of God with faith and love, must 
 excite their admiration. How angels flocked 
 around Christ; how they must have loved 
 him, when at the end of his temptation 
 ‘ the devil leaveth him, and* behold, angels 
 came and ministered unto him! ’ There 
 is the truest courage, I think, in adjusting 
 ourselves to our circumstances. If God be¬ 
 reaves us, let us live bereaved; if he takes a 
 blessing from us, let us do without it; not 
 with stoicism, but with childlike submission, 
 — ‘Father, you know best.’ 
 
 “ Besides,” said he, “ God is all the time 
 teaching us that this is not an unmixed con¬ 
 dition, neither of evil nor good. Compensa¬ 
 tions are the rule of his gracious providence ; 
 we all have them. I have learned to have 
 
AGNES. 
 
 159 
 
 less pity for greatly afflicted people than 
 formerly; for I know that they have great 
 consolations, and their losses are in one way 
 and another atoned for, in some degree, if 
 they feel and act right. 6 In the day of pros¬ 
 perity he joyful; but in the day of advershy 
 consider: God also hath set the one over 
 against the other, to the end that man should 
 find nothing after him,’ making man feel that 
 God adjusts and disposes everything. These 
 lines of Gray have been a comfort to me : 
 
 “ ‘ Still, where rosy pleasure leads, 
 
 See a kindred grief appear ; 
 
 Behind the steps that misery treads, 
 
 Approaching comfort hear. 
 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
 Chastised by sadder tints of woe, 
 
 And blended, form, with artful strife, 
 
 The strength and harmony of life.’ ” * , 
 
 “Now,” said I, “let me thank you for all 
 that you have said, and tell you something of 
 my experience under sorrow, and that may 
 
 * “ Vicissitude.”— Gray’s Poems. 
 
1G0 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 start other trains of thought in you which I 
 shall be glad to hear.” 
 
 “ I have heard several speak of that little 
 key of yours,” said he, “ and what legerde¬ 
 main you seemed to work with it in the feel¬ 
 ings of people. I hope that you will try it on 
 me.” 
 
 “ You are past needing it,” said I - “ye t we 
 can always help one another from our expe¬ 
 rience. One effect of affliction on me has 
 been to make me forgiving. People some¬ 
 times inflict great injuries upon me; for you 
 know my calling leads me into scenes where 
 I have to resist the evil passions of men. Few 
 men get more ill-will than one who tries to 
 discharge the duties of his place with im¬ 
 partiality. The treatment which I used to 
 •meet with, frequently embittered my feelings 
 against men. Since I lost my child, strange 
 to say, I find it harder to cherish animosities. 
 Some roots, you know, cannot take hold of 
 rich soil ; they need sandy, coarse ground • so, 
 when our hearts are fertilized by affliction, it 
 
AGKES 
 
 1G1 
 
 is hard for certain poor things to get a place 
 there. When a man injures me, I have a 
 feeling of tenderness toward him come over 
 me at times, if I say with myself, I wonder if 
 he has a little child, or ever lost one; and that 
 thought — you will smile — has sometimes 
 kept me from replying in the newspapers to 
 angry assaults upon me. I know how weak 
 many would deem me for this; but so it is. 
 Many a time, when my feelings have been 
 exasperated, I have taken the little key into 
 my hands, and the thought of the little grave 
 has calmed my passions. I have stolen Mark 
 Anthony’s words: 
 
 “ My heart is in the coffin there with ” Agnes, 
 
 “ And I must wait till it comes back to me.” 
 
 “As, when it thunders and lightens, I often 
 think how secure the little sleeper is ; and, 
 when the heavy rain comes down on that 
 peaceful bed, my heart betakes itself to calm 
 thoughts, because the precious dust feels no 
 tempests, wakes at no alarm, — so in trouble 
 that little grave makes me feel peaceful. 
 
162 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 How often have I said to myself, when a 
 man lias written against me or spoken ill of 
 me, Could I meet him at the grave of his 
 little child or mine, we should almost love one 
 another • we should write and speak about 
 each other, publicly, in unexceptionable terms. 
 I almost wish that some of our great conven¬ 
 tions could be held inside the fences of some 
 cemetery. ” 
 
 “ There will be a great convention in every 
 one of them, one of these days,” said he. 
 “The last great meetings of men on earth 
 will most of them be held there ” 
 
 “Each of us will come to attend them,’ : 
 said I. 
 
 “Resolutions will be of no effect then,” he 
 added, taking up a newspaper filled with mat¬ 
 ters relating to the presidential election. “0, 
 did you notice the loss of that passenger ship 
 with four hundred souls on board ? ” 
 
 “ I did, and it made me think, What a 
 cemetery is the sea. None are thought 
 of, loved, and mourned over, more than 
 
163 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 they who find their sepulture there. It 
 is soothing to have the dust of a child or 
 friend in a sure, safe grave, when you meet 
 with those whose loved ones are lost in the 
 great waters. But He who is the resurrection 
 and the life has his eye upon them. The Lord 
 * buried them, and no man knoweth of their 
 sepulchres. And yet they are more conspicu¬ 
 ously buried than those on land. Few know 
 where one and another on land lies buried, 
 but the unknown sepulchre of the deep is 
 well known; those viewless graves are ever 
 before our eyes. I have noticed that they who 
 are lost, or die, at sea, exert great religious 
 influence on survivors at home. Christ is 
 magnified in their bodies by their death.” 
 
 “I love to think,” said he, u that our sepa¬ 
 rations, griefs, and our improvement under 
 them, will make us love each other intensely 
 when we meet again.” 
 
 I said to him, “ If afflictions make us sullen, 
 slothful, jealous of God, morose, and useless, 
 we shall feel very much ashamed hereafter. 
 
1G4 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Our afflictions pierce the heart of God before 
 they reach ours. He is willing to see us 
 suffer greatly for the endless good effect which 
 he means to accomplish by it. Should he 
 spare the rod for our crying, or should he 
 consult our wishes, it would be our calamity.” 
 
 “ Do you not suppose,” he asked, u that the * 
 remembrance and the pain of some trials fol¬ 
 low us to the end of life ? When I was sick 
 some years ago, they gave me a medicine 
 which they called Hiera Picra, which, trans¬ 
 lated, you know, means Sacred Bitter. God 
 seems to dispense such medicines sometimes. 
 
 I could not remove the taste of that hitter 
 by any expedient.” 
 
 “ Do you remember,” I inquired, “ a passage 
 in Prior’s Life of Edmund Burke, which speaks 
 of his feelings at the loss of his son, the ‘ low 
 moan ’ which continued in his heart long after 
 he had submitted to God, and how he would 
 hang on the neck of his son’s horse and weep ? 
 Yes, there are sorrows which we carry with 
 
AGNES. 
 
 165 
 
 ns to our graves. They ought, however, to 
 make us more useful, more diligent, more 
 grateful for redemption; for what must it be 
 to ‘lie down in sorrow,’ in another world? 
 To a man in hell, what must the recollection 
 of his children be? What a word that is: 
 6 Ye shall lie down in sorrow.’ Did you ever 
 notice that fearful imprecation: 6 Give them 
 sorrow of heart, thy curse unto them ’ ” ? 
 
 “ My heart exults sometimes,” said he, “ in 
 thinking of that word: 6 And God shall wipe 
 away all tears from their eyes; and there 
 shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor 
 crying, neither shall there be any more pain; 
 for the former things are passed away.’ We 
 can bear anything for this short period; the 
 thought that afterward there is never to be 
 one sensation of pain or grief, but increasing 
 bliss forever, ought to make us cheerful here.” 
 
 “ It ought to make us diligent,” I replied ; 
 “ for when I think how long that bliss will be, 
 how many are in danger of losing it, how 
 
166 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 short a time we have to secure it, and help 
 others to obtain it, I do not feel impatient 
 for heaven; I wish to live and do good to my 
 fellow men.” 
 
 As we parted, I told my friend how glad I 
 felt that he had learned the self-control which 
 religion teaches. Our feelings are not given 
 to us for our guide ; we must subject them to 
 the laws of God. Though it was easier to 
 commend him than fully to imitate him, I 
 carried away with me a new purpose, that, by 
 the help of God, I would endeavor, more than 
 ever, to help myself. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 “ Which is the greater trial/’ said my wife, 
 as we rode home from a visit to some friends 
 in affliction, — “to lose a child, or to leave it?” 
 
 I replied: “ To lose it, so far as my observa¬ 
 tion has gone. Nothing has surprised me more 
 than the resignation and peace of some Chris¬ 
 tian mothers, when called to die and to leave a 
 family of young children. There was a pang 
 when the conviction that they must die came 
 over them; but it was short, and I have 
 wondered at the self-possession with which 
 they looked upon the children afterwards.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “How do you account for it?” 
 
 Mr. M. “ Partly from natural causes. 
 
 Some instincts which are given us for self- 
 
 preservation are mercifully suspended when 
 
 they can be of no use. People falling from a 
 
 height, or thrown from a vehicle, are not fully 
 
 # 
 
 (167) 
 
168 
 
 AGNES, 
 
 sensible of what is happening to them. Be¬ 
 sides, God is pleased to stay his rough wind in 
 the day of his east wind. Dying grace is for 
 a dying hour; we cannot feel in health as we 
 shall in the last hours of life” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ The expectation of what is to 
 happen to ourselves, I suppose, abates our soli¬ 
 citude for others ” 
 
 Mr. M. “ When I had made up my mind 
 to go to Europe, after we were married, the 
 anticipation of all which I was to see and ex¬ 
 perience, held my regret at leaving you, so to 
 speak, in suspension; the mind cannot long be 
 acted upon powerfully by two opposite pas¬ 
 sions ; one yields ; and so I suppose it is witn 
 the solicitude of parents for their children, v 
 when their own departure takes full posses¬ 
 sion of their thoughts. But there is something 
 better than all this, T think, as a means of pre¬ 
 paring us to leave children ” 
 
 Mrs M. “ What is that ? — for I am going 
 this afternoon to see Mrs. Wales, w T ho is dying 
 
AGNES. 
 
 1C9 
 
 of consumption. She has six children, from 
 sixteen, down to one year old.” 
 
 “I will go with you,” said I; “for I should 
 expect to be greatly instructed by seeing and 
 hearing her.” 
 
 The morning glories were climbing over the 
 windows of Mrs. Wales’ humble room, turning 
 their simple, beautiful trumpekflowers, of dif¬ 
 ferent colors, in all directions, and some of 
 them towards the open windows, where I took 
 my seat. 
 
 “ God is here, my dear Mrs. Wales,” said I, 
 as I drew one of the creepers toward me, full of 
 flowers, and looked at her. “If God so clothe 
 the grass, how much more will he clothe us.” 
 
 She was supported in bed with pillows, look¬ 
 ing nearly as white as they. The peace of 
 God which passeth all understanding was ex¬ 
 pressed in her face. 
 
 “ Mr. M.,” said she, “ I have given all up to 
 God, and feel that I no longer have any re¬ 
 sponsibility for anything.” 
 
 My wife asked her if she was able to look 
 
 15 
 
170 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 upon her babe and the other children with 
 composure of mind. 
 
 " Yes/’ she replied; "but I am a wonder to 
 myself. Their father has gone to heaven, and 
 I expect to be there soon, and these children 
 will be orphans. But I have this feeling: 
 God knows what he is doing. Now, if he sees 
 fit to take us away from our six children, let 
 him do it; for he sees a reason for it which 
 would satisfy me, could I be made acquainted 
 with it. Or, if he never tells me why he does 
 it, still, blessed be his name; for who are we, 
 that God should explain his conduct to us ? 
 0, how good it is to trust God and love him, 
 when you cannot understand his ways! ” 
 
 Mrs. M. " But you must have some natural 
 pangs, as you think of parting with these dear 
 ones.” 
 
 Mrs. W “ 0, Mrs. M., there is no reasoning 
 about it. All I know is that I am at peace.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ Tell me, Mrs. Wales, what one 
 thought comes to your mind with special 
 power as you think of leaving these children? 
 
AGNES. 
 
 m 
 
 Is there one thing more than another which 
 gives you special comfort ? ” 
 
 Mrs. W. “I think it is this: I feel sure of 
 meeting them all in heaven, and it seems to 
 me a very little while ere I shall. The last 
 time I went to church, our minister was speak¬ 
 ing about the expectation which the Apostles 
 sometimes seem to have had, that the day of 
 the Lord was near, and he said perhaps it 
 might be accounted for by their all-absorbing 
 interest in that event, which made intervening 
 time and objects shrink to nothing. Heaven 
 and eternity so engross my mind, that I 
 strangely forget earthly things, however im¬ 
 portant ; and I chide myself sometimes for 
 not planning and directing about my children. 
 But, besides being weak, I stop myself when I 
 do this at all, by saying, How little you know 
 about the future! It is like walking in the 
 fog. You can see a few steps only at a 
 time; take them, and you can see as many 
 more. My sister and her husband have 
 promised to befriend my children, but 0,” 
 
172 
 
 AGNES, 
 
 said she, covering lier face, L God is tlieir God 
 and my God, — that is enough. ” 
 
 Mr. M. “ But you feel so sure of meet¬ 
 ing them all in heaven,— how is this? What 
 gives you such confidence?” 
 
 Mrs. W. “ Jane, my child, hand Mr. M., that 
 missionary paper which has the piece about 
 leaving children.” 
 
 It was a periodical of a foreign missionary 
 society. I read aloud. It seems that a dying 
 father, a missionary, was about to leave four 
 young children; his wife, their mother, having 
 previously died. The writer says: 
 
 “ There was another subject ■which claimed his most earnest 
 thought. He was about to leave his four motherless children, 
 in a strange land, to the exclusive care of a doubly bereaved 
 sister. Knowing him to be an affectionate father, always 
 anxious and careful in regard to his offspring, I hardly dared to 
 mention the case. I soon found, however, that his mind was 
 entirely at rest in relation to them. Their sainted mother had 
 dedicated them to God ; he had renewed that dedication. A 
 covenant had been made “with the Lord to train them up whollv 
 for him. But now, by his holy providence, one party (the 
 parents) was disabled from performing the covenant; its whole 
 execution, therefore, devolved upon God. ‘ He is faithful and 
 
AGNES. 
 
 almighty ; not one thing which he has promised, shall fail.’ 
 Our dying brother triumphed in this thought. He said he felt 
 sure that he should meet all his children in heaven. ‘ Sumner, 
 Ellen, Lizzie, and (his voice failing, he rallied his waning pow¬ 
 ers, and, conquering the conqueror, said clearly) Susie! Not 
 one of them will be wanting.’ He thus left them with the most 
 delightful and unreserved confidence in the care of a covenant¬ 
 keeping God and a gracious Father. Knowing his anxious 
 temperament, I looked with wonder and admiration upon this 
 victory of his faith.” 
 
 Mrs. W. “ That is my expectation and my 
 hope. God is a covenant-keeping God. I 
 have intrusted my soul to him for eternity in 
 Jesus Christ, and I will trust my children with 
 him.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ Have you no doubt, Mrs. W. ? ” 
 
 Mrs. W. “ Sometimes it is whispered in my 
 ear, The children of good people do not always 
 turn out well; yours may be of that descrip¬ 
 tion. I cannot reason about this, either.” 
 
 “ Where reason fails, 
 
 With all her powers, 
 
 There faith prevails, 
 
 And love adores.” 
 
 “ You have lost your dear child,” said she ; 
 
 15 * 
 
174 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 “ you are not to leave her behind you. Some 
 might think that you have more to be thank¬ 
 ful for than I. It may not seem so hereafter. 
 When my six children come to me in heaven, 
 having been useful here, bringing their sheaves 
 with them, how glad I shall be that I had six 
 orphans to trust with God ! 
 
 I did not take out the little key from my 
 pocket, as I thought at first that I should do. 
 These words had made me feel that some of 
 my sorrows over that little key had not been 
 wise. I saw that it would be out of place if I 
 should use it to instruct this dying saint. 
 
 “ Beautiful words,” she continued ,—“ ‘ the 
 seed of Abraham, my friend.’ Have you never 
 witnessed, Mr. M., touching instances of kind¬ 
 ness among men toward the children of one 
 wdio was an early friend ? ” 
 
 Mr. M. “ Surely I have. I am myself an 
 instance of it. A friend of my father, a col¬ 
 lege classmate, has bestowed loving kindness 
 on me which I can never repay in this world.” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 175 
 
 Mrs. W. " Is not God the author of that 
 feeling toward the child of a dear friend?” 
 
 Mr. M. " No doubt he is.” 
 
 Mrs. W. " Then he possesses it himself.” 
 
 Mr. M. "Yes, and exercises it, he says, 
 ‘to a thousand generations.’” 
 
 "Mrs. Wales,” said I, "the influence of a 
 godly man or woman, eminent for some special 
 love and service toward God, follows in the 
 line of descent through long periods of gen¬ 
 ealogy ; there are families among us, you know, 
 who have a reputation for goodness; uncom¬ 
 mon numbers of their children are hopefully 
 pious; we honor the stock to which they be¬ 
 long, but we do not always consider that all has 
 
 f 
 
 proceeded, in many cases, without doubt, from 
 the signal favor which God bore to some man 
 or woman who maintained a life of peculiar 
 walking with God, sealing it continually with 
 fresh acts of love and service. And so that 
 blessing promised to Christ is virtually ful¬ 
 filled to them: ‘ I will make thy name to be 
 
.176 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 remembered in all generations; therefore 
 shall the people praise thee for ever and ever.” 
 
 “But,” said my wife, "what sight is more 
 heartrending than a family of orphans ? ” 
 
 " And yet,” said I, “ observation has led me 
 
 to feel less and less solicitude, in seeing a fam¬ 
 ily of children left in orphanage by parents 
 
 who were truly the children of God. The 
 self-reliance which they early learn and prac¬ 
 tise, the restraining and subduing power of a 
 deceased parent’s memory, the friends raised 
 up for them, all afford a good comment on 
 those words: ‘ Leave thy fatherless children, 
 I will preserve them alive.’ Nothing seems 
 to us more in violation of the natural and 
 proper order of things, than the removal of a 
 mother from a family of young children. We 
 would have provided against such a calamity 
 by a special law, had we arranged the affairs 
 of life and death. He who is willing to do so 
 great and solemn a thing as to remove a 
 mother from the head of her large family, 
 must have reasons for it, as Mrs. Wales says, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 1 > ~7 l ~ r 
 
 1 l L 
 
 ' which would satisfy us, could we see them 
 with a right mind/ Such an event is so 
 peculiarly an act of God’s providence, we may 
 suppose that He who giveth to the beast his 
 food, and to the young ravens which cry, will 
 not fail to accomplish some great and good 
 purpose by it to all who love him. He 
 soothes the feelings of our dear Mrs. Wales, 
 makes her speak words of comfort and cheer 
 to those whom she is about to leave, and thus 
 He secures for himself, in the hearts of the 
 children, oftentimes, and in those of their 
 friends, a degree of confidence in God as a 
 covenant-keeping God, which nothing else 
 could so well inspire.” 
 
 Mrs. W. “I expect to do more for my 
 children in heaven than I could if I should 
 live.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ Why, Mrs. Wales, we came here 
 to comfort you; but we are almost tempted 
 to say we have never found so great faith; — 
 certainly not in ourselves.” 
 
178 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Mr. M. a Please tell us liow you expect in 
 heaven to influence your children ? ” 
 
 Mrs. W. “ They will cherish my memory; 
 remember my words; say to themselves, How 
 would mother approve or disapprove of this! 
 They will never forget my praying with them. 
 I have had scenes with each child which they 
 will think of as long as they live.” 
 
 A sweet girl of twelve years, standing with 
 her face toward the window, began to sob, and 
 suddenly left the room. 
 
 Mrs. TV. “ 0, that dear Charlotte! I was 
 about to punish her, when she was eight years 
 old, for an untruth. I took her into my cham¬ 
 ber, locked the door, kneeled with her, spread 
 the case before God, asked him to help me 
 punish her, and to bless the rod for her salvar 
 tion, and then I administered the punishment. 
 She did not cry, but as soon as I had done, 
 she put her arms about me, and said: ‘Dear 
 mother, God has forgiven me; will you?’ She 
 has been almost a faultless child from that day 
 to this. Discipline, Mr. M., is greatly needed 
 
AGNES. 
 
 179 
 
 in many Christian families,—the subjection of 
 children, by proper restraints and punish¬ 
 ments, to authority; but they must be made 
 to feel, in order to be benefited, that God is 
 on the parents’ side; and therefore T have 
 found prayer to be a powerful help in correct¬ 
 ing a child. I have not finished my work 
 with my children ; it will go on when I am in 
 heaven.” 
 
 Mrs. M. 66 1 thought that you would say 
 that you expected to minister to them here¬ 
 after; yet I know that you are not apt to 
 have romantic or visionary feelings. What 
 do you think about this ? ” 
 
 Mrs. W. “ J may or may not minister to 
 them directly; that will be as God sees fit. 
 What could I do for them?—I, who cannot save 
 myself, and who will not be omniscient in 
 heaven, any more than I am here, — what can 
 I, or angels, do for my children, except as God 
 appoints ? I trust I shall not come between 
 them and God, in their love and confidence.; 
 at least, I have told them so.” 
 
ISO 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 The young woman who took care of her 
 brought in the little boy, about a year old. 
 He saw his mother, and made his hands and 
 feet fly in his eagerness to get to her. 1 
 looked at my wife, and saw her face covered 
 with tears and smiles. I knew that she was 
 reminded, by the child, of her own little girl, 
 and of the different circumstances in her own 
 case and that of Mrs. Wales; and that she 
 was making comparisons between this dying 
 mother and herself. Christian mother, which 
 of the two would you prefer to be — a 
 bereaved mother, your only child in heaven, 
 or a dying widow, leaving six children behind 
 you ? 
 
 If you say, a bereaved mother, perhaps one 
 reason is, you have been bereaved, and would 
 rather suffer known evils than those which 
 your fancy depicts or thinks it sees in others. 
 
 But while, in the nature of things, it is a 
 greater trial of faith to leave a family of chil¬ 
 dren you probably never saw a parent 
 doing; so who suffered as much as one who 
 
 O 
 
181 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 has buried a child. 0 Death! there is, to 
 survivors, something in thee to which life, with 
 all its fears and burdens, furnishes no counter¬ 
 part. Thou art God’s curse against sin, unre¬ 
 pealed by all the consolations and hopes of 
 religion, which indeed help us to endure the 
 stroke, but do not make death other than the 
 king of terrors to us, in his approaches to 
 those whom we love. It is not so hard for a 
 Christian to die, under any circumstances, 
 as it is to lose a child or beloved companion. 
 The dying grace which we say is for a dying 
 hour, sustains us when we die and leave our 
 friends; but, when they or a child are taken 
 from us, we are left with all our weaknesses 
 and sinfulness to suffer under the loss. 
 
 A pleasant sight now caught my eye. A 
 little girl, about three years old, had made her¬ 
 self acquainted with my wife during this call, 
 and had been practising her little arch ways 
 of play with her. My wife had now lifted her 
 upon the bed where the mother lay; she drew 
 
 up her chair, fixed a napkin on the child’s 
 16 
 
182 
 
 A Cx N E S. 
 
 bosom, and set her to eating a delicious Bartlett 
 pear, which she had in her pocket. There are 
 few things that afford such a mixture of 
 amusement and happiness as to take a little 
 child unawares, one with whom you are on 
 familiar terms, set it down, and watch it, as 
 you give it a delicious fruit and see it eaten. 
 The looks of pleasure from a pair of roguish 
 eyes; the glow of satisfaction overspreading 
 the features; the laughter mixing in with the 
 motion of the face in eating; the occasional 
 offer of a bite to the mother; the slight em¬ 
 barrassment at seeing us all looking at her; 
 made the little girl the object of delighted 
 admiration, while the thought of its approach¬ 
 ing orphanage awakened in us feelings of 
 tenderness and love. 
 
 “ I dare say,” said her mother, a little Rachel 
 will meet with a great many kind acts, and 
 be taken care of ‘ I know all the fowls of 
 the mountains/ God tells us. This little one 
 is of more value than many sparrows, isn’t 
 she ? I am going to be with God, and he 
 
AGNES. 
 
 183 
 
 will remember my children, surely, when he 
 sees me; and, if he needed any remembrancer, 
 how much better able I should be, there, to 
 obtain help for them, than here. But, after 
 all, how little we know about such things! I 
 give all up, and leave them with God.” 
 
 We walked away; and, so full were we of 
 what we had seen and heard, that we hardly 
 spoke to each other for several minutes. At 
 last I said: 
 
 “From this time, I will certainly refrain 
 from sorrowing over our afflicted condition. 
 I would not exchange places with Mrs. Wales, 
 with all her consolations.” 
 
 Mrs . M. “ If you were in her place, you 
 would have her consolations with it. I am 
 not sure that I shall cease to sorrow. Our 
 loss is none the less real and great, now, than 
 before we made this call; only, we see how 
 wrong it is to think that our sufferings are 
 peculiar.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ One thing makes me feel humble 
 
184 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 and quiet. Here is a dear saint, whom (if 
 
 lie loves me at all), God loves as much as he 
 
 * 
 
 loves me. Every where we can find those 
 who are dear to him. It bids me refrain 
 from exalting myself and my affairs in my 
 own esteem. I am only one; there are other 
 interests which are as important as mine ; I 
 feel sorry that I have dwelt so much on my 
 affliction.” 
 
 Mrs. M. u If it has not made us murmur, 
 nor kept us from doing our duty, we ought 
 not to reproach ourselves for our sorrows. If 
 something had made us happy, how inconsis¬ 
 tent it would have been if we had wept. God 
 intends that we should be joyful in prosperity, 
 and in adversity consider.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ It does me good to express my 
 unconsidered feelings to you, for, by the act of 
 expressing them, I am led to see their error, 
 and so am kept from brooding over them.” 
 
 Mrs. M. "You said nothing,I observed,to 
 Mrs. Wales, about Agnes.” 
 
AGNES. 
 
 185 
 
 Mr. M. “ How could I, with such a sight 
 before me as those little children of hers, 
 about to lose such a mother ? ” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ One of the best helps in sorrow 
 and trouble, surely is to visit people in afflic¬ 
 tion.” 
 
 Mr. M. “ What scenes there must be in 
 heaven, every day, in the meetings of parents 
 and children, and relatives and friends; but, 
 among them all, I do think that to meet a 
 little child, who died in infancy, and has been 
 for years in heaven, must have as much of 
 surprise and gladness in it as anything.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ Yes, but, after the surprise and 
 gladness are over, there is something else 
 which I think must be a richer and more per¬ 
 manent joy. You know that,when the novelty 
 of meeting, after long separation, has ceased, 
 we need something still to prevent satiety. 
 Now, it seems to me that the greatest, the 
 most enviable joy, in heavenly recognitions, 
 must be experienced by those who themselves, 
 
 16* 
 
186 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 or whose children, or companions, or dear 
 
 friends, have been eminently good and service¬ 
 able to God and man. Much as I anticipate 
 
 in meeting Agnes, I cannot sympathize wdth 
 those parents who long to die in order to see 
 their children. After getting home and find¬ 
 ing all well, you know that life here runs on 
 as before; getting home is not everything, 
 pleasant as happy returns are. I would rather 
 be Mrs. Wales, in heaven, receiving her chil¬ 
 dren who shall have borne the Saviour’s cross 
 here, and hearing him say, ‘Well done! 5 
 than to meet dear little Agnes, a thousand 
 times over.” 
 
 Mr. M. “.Yon are right; so should I.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ I wish there were less of selfish¬ 
 ness in our sorrows, and less of it in our 
 expectations of heaven. To be useful is the 
 great end of life. God makes some useful to 
 his church by suffering; others by working. 
 There is that sick minister, whom we met at 
 S —- Springs, afflicted in such complicated 
 
r» 
 
 AGNES. 187 
 
 ways. One of his people told me that he had 
 done great good by his spirit and behavior in 
 trouble, and by his prayers and occasional 
 preaching, in all the neighboring churches. 
 His wife must rejoice over him, when he 
 comes to her in heaven, far more in conse¬ 
 quence of the way in which God has honored 
 him in doing good by him, than for any other 
 reason” 
 
 Mr. M. “ I am told that they send for him. 
 far and near, to visit people in great trouble of 
 mind. He is a son of consolation. A mem¬ 
 ber of Congress told me that he could count 
 nine educated men, who, he thought, had 
 been led to a religious life by the personal 
 influence of that man.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ Suppose that he had spent his 
 time only in weeping over his bereavements 
 and afflictions?” 
 
 Mr. M. “ c He that goeth forth and weep- 
 eth, bearing precious seed;’ — the weeping 
 sower seems to be a paradox in natural things* 
 
188 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 but in spiritual things it is good for sowers to 
 be great weepers.” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ What is the rest of that pas¬ 
 sage ? ” 
 
 Mr. M. “ 6 Shall doubtless come again with 
 rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.’ ” 
 
 Mrs. M. “ 6 Sheaves with him.’ That is 
 the way to make meetings and greetings in 
 heaven happy. Just to be restored to lost 
 friends, — how poor a satisfaction this is, of 
 itself! Happiness here needs something solid 
 to make it satisfying; it will be so there. 0, 
 I hope, if you survive me, that you will not 
 waste your time and strength in sorrowing, 
 but remember how happy you will be, and 
 how happy you will make me, if my death 
 shall make you love God and the Saviour 
 more than ever, and fit you to bless and help 
 to save men. Think how much good God has 
 enabled dear little Agnes to do through us; 
 what a happy eternity she will have, as she 
 traces out the influences of her death far dowm, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 189 
 
 It ma) T be, to the judgment day. What is the 
 mere pleasure of meetings and recognitions, 
 compared with this ? ” 
 
 But it becomes me here to draw the veil, 
 and hide from view the “treasures of dark¬ 
 ness” connected with an event which soon 
 followed this conversation. It was a little 
 coffin, and no other, that furnished the key 
 which has given occasion to this book. 
 
 And now the graves of Mother and Child 
 lie side by side in one of our cemeteries. 
 To one of the parents, therefore, the key 
 of the little coffin has ceased to be a memo¬ 
 rial and a type, for the child is restored to 
 her embrace. I am now sole proprietor of 
 the little key. But as the evening star now 
 sets earlier daily, and hastens below the 
 horizon into the east, so the sad associations 
 with this little symbol make less and less im¬ 
 pression, and morning airs and dawning light 
 are taking their place. As I was last week 
 
190 
 
 A ONES. 
 
 planting candy-tuft and the marvel-of-Peru 
 upon those graves, — varying, as I love to 
 do each year, the annuals or biennials which 
 grow there, and expecting, without fail, to see 
 flowers bloom from those seeds,—I thought of 
 what was planted underneath, and how certain 
 it is that, in due season, I shall reap if I faint 
 not. 
 
 I feel disposed to end my tale in keeping 
 with a beautiful epitaph over a grave near 
 Athens, in Greece, which is in these sweet 
 words: 
 
 Eubulus, 
 
 Son of Laon, 
 
 LIVED SEVENTEEN YEARS. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The (C farewell ” on the stone is to the 
 reader; — a comely act of gentle behavior in 
 sorrow to the stranger whose curiosity should 
 lead him to approach that grave. 
 
 So, dear reader, Farewell! Agnes lived a 
 twelvemonth, and here is her story. 
 
 If God sees fit to use you in doing good, 
 
AGNES. 
 
 191 
 
 and would qualify you for great enjoyment, 
 here and hereafter, he can accomplish it, per¬ 
 haps, in no way more effectually than by put¬ 
 ting into your hands the key of some pre- 
 cious, buried treasure. Again, Farewell! 
 
 THE END. 
 

 
 
 
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 **< 0('C^C<CAC»0'C' 
 
 o<& 
 
 RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 TICKNOR 
 
 BV4907 
 
 .A3 
 
 1864